The mind, a dormant stone

For the new babies: I am prayin' that the sky we know to be blue will stay that way for you. & I want you to know about the grass and all its friends, the weeds, the in-between, even the case for roaches; (that's right--and because it's righteous and rosy) to respect all things that breathe. Dearest little ones, keep yourself tucked tightly inside and blossom safely when it's time. You're the tulips perched steadily atop its stem. You will know how to bend with the current so to never break. You will adjust with the pressure so to conserve your strength and whip back with might and with truth beaming from your eyelids. You will be the ones to lead us away from hate for all that we are, and give us light for a new age. Jessica M. Wilson April 2, 2020 napowrimo National Poetry Month Covid-19 can't kill poetry

When you woke up today, did you think of yourself as performing for someone? Are you on a showcase for superstars? A new reality of your own to make shine... What if you reached up to grab at your knees pull them inside your chest, caving; the carving of anatomical complexities, just wide to imagine. Open your mouth and let the air flow in like a falling star from gravity entering beyond orbit into lungs, beating heart -- a hobby. I breathe, to make myself more useful. A hobbyist. Open large, exhale loud -- a hobby. Just an action to a reaction to an action, deliberate or not. A hobby. Talked on the phone today heard from mom and dad. They seemed to want to care today. Seemed to feel the need to understand their daughter, a living entity all on her own, a living victory of their mismatched seeds. A final exam of master-hood. Creation. Yet, still my breath to them -- a hobby. - Jessica M. Wilson