the thorns of a new week
crown through the pink clouds
in sulfur-yellow shards of sun. each passing
day, week, I fight to make this stumbling
more than the sorrow of missing you, less than the joy
of counting the days until we are reunited. Time
is a two-faced lover: easing and stealing. Yet I have learned so little
in my years except this: life is a treasure
chest filled with uncertain things.
I wrote this draft this morning as part of National Poetry Writing Month. I hope to collect these works for a mixed writing media piece I am working on entitled Love Letters to my Brother in Prison.