even the fleeting

a handful of warm soil,

the last light sliding off a field,

my father’s voice as he remembers

something he once forgot.

i gather because time spills:

grain from a split sack,

names from a frayed mind,

moments from the hours we thought

would hold still for us.

my hands were made for this.

cupping the fragile things:

the breath before a goodbye,

the threadbare joke we told to keep from crying,

the way sunlight once landed

on someone I loved

before calling him home.

in the end, the harvest is small,

stitched into the lining of my pockets.

quiet, stubborn proof

that even the fleeting can be carried,

and even the scattered

can be made whole