The week of broken staircases:

There's a place between 
the kitchen floor and 
Sunday morning 

where green thumbs 
dig themselves under roots of 
dandelions that bury too deep 
suffocating the rhubarb

meeting the black that 
sticks under your fingernails 
and squishes between your toes 

where coffee 
goes cold too fast and tastes 
like honey

and sunshine 
streams through windows too early 
in the morning 

where wind sweeps up your hair
and carries away yesterday's 
sorrows and tomorrow's newspaper

and birds sing soft melodies 
that entangle themselves into the lace
that hems your dress
and the raindrops 

that fall on the crumpled pages 
of your book 
filling the gaps between the words 
with the color purple 

where you pin the crossword puzzles 
that you never finish 
over gaping holes in a 
plastered wall.

That's where I will be 
waiting with nostalgia and dew drops 
placed perfectly on my fingertips.