these are the things I tend to

in my garden of moments

its earthy rows

lined with ordinary wonder:

     the ballroom of my bedroom floor

     a furtive dance of cobwebs, hair tangles

     and the elusive fluffs

     my broom will never catch

the dead-dry seeds:

hollowpod orphans that

hoarsely rattle songs

of their now gone mothers

     my father’s true laugh

     a buried relic

     sometimes unearthed

     at a full table with a bit of wine

the words you say

when your mouth is shut

the stories you tell me

with the weight of your hands