A Palmful of Metaphors

I’d like a palmful of metaphors,

Ones to use every time

I put a pen to a page,

To plant in my heart

And become submerged in my hope,

My pride and my sadness,

Sprouting ideas for me to translate

Into words tangible for a poem,

The blossoms stories

That have a direct thread,

Carefully spun gold,

To my heart,

Carrying back the excess words

To water the ones just beginning;

I’d like torn pages

With verses written plainly,

But with the meaning

Needing the love mapped by creases

In order to arise;

A watch that's glass will chip

Away with time,

A band creased

And frayed

With every moment

I never want to forget;

A pen that’s just the right weight

To match that of words,

With ink that makes stories

Look too perfect for stories,

So that I have to smudge them

With my palm

To make them tied

To my heart.