I need
a poem
some days,
a reminder
to Breathe,
built
of tiny lines.
Each pause
a place to
rest,
a soft red pillow
shaped like the suggestion
of a stop sign.
The poem puts out its hand,
whispers, Wait, and
look both ways:
Snow dusts
the dark morning.
Houses glow and simmer,
dawn and lamplight
meet and kindle
at every window.
Now, stretch
and breathe
into the new day.
That’s the kind of poem
I need now.
