Over the white spaces in my sentences
It snows star dust.
I lick the frosting off the spoon in the kitchen.
My language has well designed holes,
As though my words were lace.
Try as we might,
We all carry Monday morning inside us.
What I’d like to do is take my needle
That my husband fashioned
From a star
Just for me,
And sew another message
Another meaning into my words.
Language Holes
Life at Home 