Tiny handsaw to cut
Without permission
Limbs from my grandmother's trees
Miniature hammer
For my father's tool belt stolen nails 
Big enough to hold redwood timbers
And life size houses
A child-size toolbox in hand
To create my fortified Barbie fort
For her camper van

The onslaught, the purge
The final push, the attack
I delve in with bags and boxes
In hand for dresses
Three sizes too small and two sizes too big
Closets of marvels, feats of wonder
Beautiful and stilettoed
Never worn un-painful
Spring has sprung and hinges are open
Wide for a time to simplify

Small refractions flicker across
Blades of grass with dew
Evaporating in slow mid-morning heat
Welcome a new day and a quickly faded memory
Leaving behind traces of tiny mirrors 
To catch glimpses of wrinkled eyes

Junctures in dust and pavement taking
Automobiles to distant distractions
Asphalted byways dotted with tolls and trolls 
And tourist traps readied
To take, steal monies
Unworthy of the goodies purchased
By souls forgotten and primed for the devil and demons

Meaningful discourse avoided
Temporarily silenced into static
Electricity traveling over sine waves
Crisscrossing patterns leading
To stagnated voids of
Quiet misery

My old Dutch desk of pine
Traveled miles, decades to be with me, centuries pass
Dents, Scratches, Solid
Who wrote love letters on you?

Disposable phone placed upon you
Gone when the next arrives
Never worn out, never used up
Will anyone care when you are gone?

What lasts longer?
A soul made into a desk
Or  a plastic phone 

Drawls that languish on tongues
Sliding across lips mumbling native sounds
That meld with an old Queen whose English is only heard
In homes rooted, grounded in traditional words
​Unfamiliar to non-native ears

Un-air conditioned kitchens in sticky southern Virginia heat
Did the humidity make them rise?
Leavening works in mysterious ways
Breezes blow through tiny windows releasing smells
Of lard and buttermilk into the yard greeting visitors and ghosts
Hot, moist, heavenly air sniffed by dogs craving the sweetness
More than sustenance
As time slows down

Life lived with imperfections
Graced by a different drummer so they say
Or no drummer at all
Just a shrill guitar in the background of loudness
Black and deep
She doesn't do bubbly
She likes her terms

Light bursts through windows
Cracked with spider webs of age
Swollen shut, caked with paint
Wavy blurs of time past
When crisp perfection was not required
And transcendence demanded hope