Empty

All the while,
my notebook remains empty.

I hate the way my handwriting
looks when I first begin to write.
It's awkward,
clumsy;
I grip the pen tightly,
too tight,
and relearn the skill.

My words clamber
across the page,
tripping over themselves,
any my rough fingerprints.

My hand aches.
I'm out of shape.

I remember being scared,
too scared to write.

I plan to fill this notebook,
digital or otherwise,
until
no
more
comes.

Daydreams

My daydreams
had thorns on them,
and fade to the color of
boiling smoke.

Surrounded by the heavy blue scent
of my imagination,
I lose touch with reality,
become intoxicated.

Drunk with nostalgia,
I stammer to the open door,
ajar, and breathing with fresh air
from the outdoors.

I burst outside,
only to crash into a pile of dead leaves,
the colors of rust and butter.  Again,
I am thrust into another childhood memory,
this one happier and healthier.

I cannot escape my memory,
and as this thought warms my face,
against the brisk October wind,
I fall into a deep, chaotic spasm of laughter.

Missing

Sitting before the fire,
not cold enough outside
to warrent one,
I am torn between two worlds:
Baudelaire's sad Paris,
changed and still changing
as he mopes up and down
Place du Carrousel
looking for signs of youth;

and my bouncing daughter:
pants too long, cuffs slipped over her tiny heels,
holding onto an overhead rail,
practicing her jump
over and over,
cooing and cooing,
laughing,
making happy noises.

Two worlds, a century-and-a-half apart,
a continent apart,
aren't that different.
Charles and I both long for an earlier time
when buildings and babies
were younger;
streets and siblings
were newer;

But what he and I don't realize,
is that if we just look upward,
toward the sun,
our objects of affection,
and see beauty before us,
we will see
Paris.
Emerson.

Otherwise, we will continue
to walk,
head bowed,
missing life.