She said, pink lips parted by the cresting wave of words,
That everything becomes a something in context.
That that orange smudge thumbed upon the coldpress board
Is a tangerine hung between leaves of lace
And the branches of twine if you lay them down beside it.
And the blanket’s warmer if the door’s been left open
For part of the storm to sneak inside it.
And a hand’s a lifeline with another to find it,
And no one’s really alone.
There are hearts that beat faster at the red of a flower
But the scratched penmanship and the prick of the thorn
Are also the sources of the flush to the cheeks.
And we are magnificent because we are finite,
So very magnificent because we keep trying
In spite of the time line, the stretch of horizons,
The brevity of light.
That nothing should stop us-
No, not even a period-
No, not yet,
But before then,
The sun is a painting in the frame of a window.
And stars are the spaces through a quilt’s fibers.
And everything is something,
In the context
Of details taped to our lives.