Who says we give away the pearls we own?
Think make-believe: think souvenir or prize
for weathering a storm, reaching a stone
ledge. Think yielding. It never happens. Eyes
that see beyond the sill will recognize
darkness cast by leaves, the loss of Sunday.
What do you mean? Old habits: our body
seeks the bullseye, brass ring, the vintage wine—
And wouldn’t the stray thumb rub a gaudy
crown? Still ours to pray for: the death of mine.
—Sofia M. Starnes