A fire pit in Glenwood. Leftovers in Lincoln. A bike trail. A blueberry.
A tray of watercolors. A full moon. The bear hug from a kindred friend.
An offer of help. The road to Loveland. A cup of ice. A grin from Jerry.
Sawyer's red hair. Clara's fire-breathing dragon. The last poem at the end
of the day. Vacancy at the campground. The sighting of herons. The words
"Come in." An old highway that takes you through a small town. A kitchen chair.
When someone understands you perfectly. A piece of pie cut into thirds.
When it comes, tuck yourself into this brief and tender home. Lean into the air
of it, the permission slip, the romance of a moment's sweet caress.
Grab more fistfuls of these tiny stars. You need more light, not less.