sunday

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. 

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