The Possible

I know a place
that feels like a name
you didn’t forget.
Just didn’t say it
for a while.

A place
that smells like soup
and sounds
like shoes coming home.

A town isn’t much
Until somebody walks it
with a story
in their feet.

I stepped in a garden
that wasn’t mine
but the dirt
knew my name.

A carrot leaned in
like it had something to say.
I listened.

That little house,
it wasn’t much.
But the walls
made room
for somebody
who knew
how to breathe.

And if you breathe right,
you might fit next to someone
without pushing them out.

I saw a small dog
sit in a sunbeam
like it owned it.
That’s the kind of light
that doesn’t ask permission.

Some things stick
not in your memory,
but in your mouth.

Fruit warm
from the vine,
salt in your hand,
sun on your back—
you don’t forget that.
You sing it.

You ever walk
beside somebody
who doesn’t say much
but you know
they’d miss you
if you weren’t there?
That’s love.

You ever run
and have somebody
keep up
just because
they wanted to?
That’s love too.

Some coats look easy.
But even easy
needs a little brushing
now and then.

I pulled rhubarb
from the ground,
still dirt on it.
Blew it off
and dipped it
in sugar.
That was dinner.
That was church.

Joy’s wild.
It dances.
Sometimes it knocks things over.

You just love it.

Leave anything
alone too long,
it’ll start breaking things
just to hear
a sound.

If you’re gone
from your own house
too long,
you better bring a key
and a song
when you come back.

Some foods
stick to your ribs
like stories.
They tell you
who you are
when you forget.

Don’t just pick
what’s pretty.
Pick what picks you.
What sees the you
you buried
under the quiet.

That’s home.
That’s joy.
That’s true.