I feel like an old, wet, bag of leaves.
A bag of leaves that has been sitting outside for a year.
And kids keep hitting me with sticks.
I am tired.
When I sit down I melt.
I BECOME a bowl of ice cream.
I melt and collapse and
SLIIIIDDDEEE down the edges of the house
into my pillow.
I grab my pillow.
I hold it as if it were a person.
I bring it close.
I love it as if
it knows me.
Because I know it, so very well.
It is my best friend.
I need a vineyard of steel rebar to hold me up.
A kind heart to soak in the day.
An old basket to catch the sighs.
A parachute to set me down slowly.
The tiny click of a door shutting softly.
A whisper on my neck.
And a thread of soft music woven
into a warm summer quilt,
fresh out of the oven,
and ready to save me
from the world.