Walking on the Ceiling

A curious child, who's
supposed to be
taking her afternoon nap,
inches forward
on her back
until her head rests
near the side of
her mattress where
she gazes wide-eyed
at an upside-down bedroom,
envisioning her quiet,
stealthy tip-toes
tickling the chilled
surface of smooth
ceiling plaster. She’d
chase scared spiders
from pristine webs
near the ivory doorway’s
crisp upper ledge
then grab the end
of a ceiling-fan paddle,
spinning it fast
like a metal arm
on a merry-go-round
that disappears
in cooling whirs
of color and wind.

First appeared in Verse Wisconsin

Life

Every day is a passing thought.
We live each day,
we die each day while we live:
with the past and present
we cling with hope to our future.
But our past is heavy like stone, like marble,
moveable only by time’s water and chisel
as we break away minute by hour,
allowing painful memories to
stream out of our lives
like heavy pebbles:
a word spoken, a name, a scent,
as if a falling copper coin
could jolt us back in time
to each moment of being and place—
each experience better left
corroding green and settled
at the bottom
of some long-forgotten
wishing fountain.