You are copper pennies dropped into a large copper bowl

You are not a junkyard dog with a large bark but missing teeth­­­

You are not Memorial Day

You are a patchwork quilt

You are not the running toilet or the knob that makes it stop

You are not purple but you are sage mixed with grey

You are my morning stretches

You are not plastic

You are not fleece blankets

You are not a stranger’s snores

You are the patch of hair on Lucy’s left foot

You are Sunday mornings

You are LA rain

You are not the deflated airbags of my crashed automobile

You are the sound of the dryer on its starting cycle

You are the rainbow feedback when the tracking does not work

You are the green smelling puddle, clumped with dirt

You are not a piece of string from the sleeve of my gifted sweater

You are a little ant

You are not a human giant

You are not a chipped cup

You are not my everything

You are my sister’s diary book I read at age eleven

You are not apple skin or peach fuzz or pit less grapes

You are not a sleigh bed

You are a ripe pear

You are the squeaky hinge of the kitchen door

You are my mattress on the floor

You are not a solar eclipse

You are not a guitar

You are not a liar

You are a tiny tea kettle

You are small black tapes contained in a shoe box

You are a number two pencil with the eraser partially used

You are not the cold water in the shower head

You are pando the trembling giant, the forest of trees that stem from one root

You are not foggy spectacles

You are not the salt left on the table

You are the ice left in the glass

You are the watermelon dripping

You are the color red while I rub my eyes

You are the waste basket brimming over with crumpled poems

You are the bottles by my window frame

You are the orange curtains closed

You are bees

You are not the footsteps in the hallway

You are not the broken ceiling fan

You are not the ticking pilot light

You are the wet wood

You are the yellow stolen winter hat

You are the Motown tape I took from Ivory

You are the accidents that leave a stain

You are a pocket watch

You are the smell of mints

You are paperback

You are the scar under my kneecap

You are not concrete

You are not the quarter moon

You are not a basin left out in storms

You are my eyes when they close without squinting

You are the vines

You are staring cows

You are the sharp scissors that clip off the thorns

You are the music box from my Nana

You are the picture of the desert

You are not sweat

You are not lavender

You are a pine cone kept in an overnight bag for safe keeping

You are two socks that are the same length but different colors

You are not a Thursday

You are not a reusable bag

You are smooth like a pebble stone

You are a bird on a lake

You are mumbled laughter

You are not sleepless nights

You are not the glowing sign

You are a white lie

You are the clipping of my smallest fingernail