Pine Needle:
"Somewhere in an office building in
the heart of Chicago, there is a pine needle, laying along a narrow, carpeted
hallway, occasionally being stepped on by the passersby. In the evening, a
janitor named Phil will come along and vacuum it up, as he listens to an
audiobook his sister’s husband gave him last Christmas. Phil doesn't know how
the pine needle got there, and he will not lose any sleep by not knowing. It doesn't concern him any more than it concerns you.
But it does concern you. Or rather,
it ought to. Because stories often have stories behind them – and it’s those
quiet, unassuming, unnoticed stories that are always the most interesting, once
they are actually known."
My sadness is a winter animal,
hibernating through the summer heat.
Only stirring when the weather changes,
invigorated from extended sleep.
Only then, in late September,
do I suddenly remember
that a part of me is broken
and doesn't want to go back home.
"Thomas swung his door open and stepped out, and I struggled with the handle again before getting it open and stepping out. Thomas had already grabbed the can and set it down by the pump on my side of the truck. I swiped my card, internally being grateful that they took credit cards at all. We both worked in silence – me filling up the two-gallon can on the ground, and Thomas effortlessly holding up the silent gravity he seemed to carry with him.
I looked down at his boots, which were old and rugged and caked in dried mud. Then I looked at my brown dress shoes, spotless and clean, and wished I weren't wearing them. Thomas looked rooted into the ground wherever he stood, but I couldn't help but feel dried out and weightless."
Sunlight Intoxication:
"The sky is a great tumbler,
and God is the Bartender of the cosmos.
Each day, He crafts new recipes
to intoxicate the mind of His creation."
Forgotten:
"Suddenly, the room, the people, and
everything around him melted away in one quick instant, and he found he was
standing outside, in an open field. Blinking, he looked around, wondering how
and why he was suddenly standing here. Just moments before, he was – well –
what was he doing? For some reason, he couldn’t quite remember where he had
been just been, even though he was sure it was only seconds ago that he was
there. The harder he thought about it,
the less he remembered.
Almost right away, he noticed that
this field was not empty. Scattered around in no particular order, were large,
white, words. They stood about chest high, and looked as though someone had
dumped a bag full of charades words and had neglected to pick them up."
The Beauty of Frost:
"A poet makes you
breathe more deeply,
linger longer, speak
more sweetly,
wonder wildly, love
completely,
pause more often,
live less neatly."
