Poet’s Corner – Being

I stop dead in my tracks and look 
up at the sky. 

It’s a good thing my hands 
are free because I can’t help but throw them 
up towards the thick, layered clouds

there’s a small opening emitting light that
seems just within my reach

I pinch it, soft, peony-petal, fragile 
like tea leaves, 
golden-blue thistle 

I stand on my toes,
stretch my arms to distend,
make myself 
longer, take up as much air 
and space as 
as I can  

reaching a little 
further, palming the glow
in my hand, skin to skin, 
sturdy as hope, I remember now 
the butterfly twitches, 
the honey-warm mold
sensation glowing through 
my swollen flesh 

Top photo: Bigstock