the numbers of yards of wildflower-spotted grass
that i crossed with a lowered head
thinking of the people who can make me cry without wanting to hurt me
of the power i give into their hands
that i'm happy not to take back
for which i ask nothing in exchange

fond memories and farewells ... and gratitude

magic, love and wonder
and simple acceptance of these
(to the point of self-defeat and helplessness)
in the little things of life

the night could contain it no more
it finally rained like the confession (that never came)
and she could hear it on her window incessantly
through her wakeful sleep