Bag

HERE IS a sliver of sunlight
Through blue curtains,
The crisp red skin of an apple,
Dust on forgotten on books.

Here is the rustle of a turning page,
The squeak of snow underfoot,
The dull tines of a fork.

Here are the spines of a pineapple,
The flesh of a nectarine,
The swish of a satin skirt.

Here is the soughing of pine trees,
Water filling a bathtub,
The cigar shop at dusk.

Here are dishes left in the sink,
The height of a redwood tree,
Toes tapping on tile.

Here is the sting of saltwater in the nose,
The searing beam of a lighthouse,
The tart taste of tangerine.

Here is a hissing teakettle,
The smell of baking bread,
The crack of thunder.

Here too is the smell of wild licorice,
The tough rind of a cantaloupe,
The sheen of melted chocolate.

So?

This bag is full,
Too heavy for my shoulders,
So I drag it behind me,
Collecting smells, sounds, scenes.
I always over pack,
But I cannot leave them behind.
These are things I see all the time,
These are things you need for dreams.