by Sarah Snyder
Setting the Sun
Another sun slides away—
what if there were many suns
for Earth—a new one each day
riding across the blue and clouds,
ending a journey by dropping into
a large basket of suns—a collection
of suns to sift through, the way I examine
old stamps, buy them in other countries
to see the small pieces of art—scalloped
edged squares or rectangles face to face.
I’d pick up the suns once they’d cooled,
find a place for each—one in the bones
of a winter tree, one in the mirror,
and one on every envelope I send.
Wanting a Tattoo
On the underside
of my wrist,
something to be
part of me,
maybe a little book
a poem holder,
fenced into a mark
to touch and see
even in the dark,
when I add
under my head
to lift me.
A Different Direction
for Jen Hamilton
How you can attend a spill
on the counter with an instinctive
brush of a hand, removing some
but leaving the spread
of beaded remains. Or you can find
a cloth or paper towel, press
into the liquid, pull it all into fibers,
moments, sweeping them away
with the swish of your swirling
world or draw them to you
taking in each second, each one.
Lovely poems. Little, profound works of art. Thank you for this spot to absorb this morning.
I love the notion of collecting suns. Your poem brought me a wee moment of joy at the end of a very difficult day.