I am partial to poems about
babbling brooks, low tides,
the breathing of a newborn.
The way the wind blows through
the stalks of grass-
swaying back and forth-
like the strands of hair of a little girl
standing in front of a fan.
Playing hide-and-seek with
the second-graders from your block.
Sneakily tip toeing along the “lava-floor.”
Can you see my fondness for the words
“calm” and “quiet”?
Quite ironic in a world filled with
the chaos and turmoil
of the homeless orphan
clutching a torn, dusty, blue satchel
with only a stuffed teddy bear and
a family portrait,
his only worldly possessions
after the earthquake in Nepal.
Your friend that listens to
your pointless boy drama
of how he didn’t notice you today,
or tells you what not to wear
so you don’t look like a w****,
or encourages you when you’re down.
The weary grandma,
with cracked hands and
creaky joints,
knitting by the fireplace
after putting her grandson to sleep.
About a Buddhist monastery
in northern Thailand-
About meditating in the corner
garden under
the weeping
willow tree.