I dream in bookshelves and bottles,
broken glass and tiles
found down dusty roads that disappear into the horizon.
my love lives down a gravel road.
rhododendrons lean out and over,
pulling me in.
he doesn’t wait for me. he never has.
the kettle is hot on the stove,
and the blank pages beckon.
so I fill my houses with bookshelves
broken glass and tiles,
content to write until the soft knock comes from over my shoulder.
the kettle whispers on the stove,
and I have stories to tell.