Sunday, February 18, 2024

Salt

Betsy Rosenblatt Rosso

February 18

I am a pitcher pouring cool water into your cup

I am a clock taking its own time

I am a spiral staircase stepping up to the stars

I am the stitching of the quilt that you snuggle underneath

I am a match determined to ignite

I am a curl standing out from the crowd

I am a bear defending every cub

I am the opalescent wings fastened on

so I can fly

I am a rivulet of strawberry ice cream dripping pinkly down the side of a waffle cone

I am a pair of dice rolling the

wrong combinations

I am a broken heart that's tender to the touch

I am a puddle showing you your reflection

I am a pitcher pouring cool water into your cup

I am a clock taking its own time

I am a spiral staircase stepping up to the stars

I am the stitching of the quilt you snuggle underneath

I am a match determined to ignite

I am a curl standing out from the crowd

I am a bear defending every cub

I am the opalescent wings fastened on

so I can fly

I am a rivulet of strawberry ice cream dripping pinkly

down the side of a waffle cone

I am a pair of dice rolling the wrong combinations

I am a broken heart too tender to touch

I am a puddle showing your reflection

I am a third door opening to a different world

I am the sunlit clearing when you emerge from the woods

I am buttery words spilling off the page like tight kernels bursting into hot popcorn

I am sometimes the salt

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