The Dwelling Place

December 15, 2017
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of my soul: resilient

purple crocuses


resurrecting through

snow; serenading swallows
perched amidst blossoms;


petrichor (the smell?

of parched earth after rain); pink

peony petals


softer than trickling

water; the scent of grandma's

pillow–fragrant and


familiar like

honey for bees; tumble-dried
fabric pulled above


the knees, lavender-

scented and snug like sunny
meadows; words that go


down like chamomile

tea, the soft f and v in
“forgive”; cuddles–the


cousin of warm baths,

hugs–the loving aunt; cassette
tapes clicking into


place, Dan Fogelberg’s

mellifluous musings; the


slap of exhaust-filled

air and untamed hair; Spanish
as smooth as asphalt;


meteor showers,

shimmering streaks across pearl-?

strewn skies; summer nights


as sweet and fluid

as watermelon drippings;

forests on forearms–


trees erected by

goosebumps–the dwelling place of

hungry wolves; howling


at the harvest moon,

they say "I love you to the

moon and back, always.”

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