Needle points left
tapping it I
hope something remains
even if fume
even a promise
of something better
or a glance
glimpse lingering stare
anything that might
or could maybe
carry me farther
forward from here
Less
Say less
not more
let words
be brutally
brief bringing
humid breath
allow sighs
to sing
and eyes
to settle
and hands
to hang
inches from
the flesh
Today
At last
things done
it’s time
to think
do I
don’t I
maybe so
my mistakes
of yesterday
get smaller
and smaller
the more
that I
do today
Thing
Looking never guarantees
be a tree
and let wind
find your branches
be a stone
and let water
wash over you
be the silence
so that song
can be heard
be the thing
that others bump
into being them
Valley
I wonder now
if love inspires
or if it’s
just of another
for this love
that I have
found of myself
is a quiet
kind not prone
to any words
but the kind
that I’ve felt
for others screams
from mountain tops
so I think
that the love
for one’s very
own self is
found in valleys
amongst the winding
rivers and prairie
a hushed forest
kind of love
full of pine
needle smells and
times own crunch
HARLAN DIDRICKSON 