Grasping

A Small Poem

For days I have been without poetry.
The heat overtaking the day.
What is the point? I am wondering.
Looking over the weeds.
Fanny Howe dies.
And I think that is the point.
To go barefoot and pull them. To say Oh wow!
To the moon rising between the pink building and the passion fruit vines.
Almost full and so close, I wanted to believe in heaven, but heaven I know
is not be big enough for all of this grief.