Amy Soricelli - 2
We Missed the #68 to Orchard Beach
Kindness is curious - it sits in jars.
It mistakes itself for grace -
slips through the bars of good will.
Kindness sometimes lives
on its own mountain -
looks at itself in mirrors;
it never judges itself -never gets full.
Kindness races down the street with its mouth open -
words of reassurance following like a shadow.
It holds your thoughts like a place setting.
Kindness is air-tight and rolls down stairs
wrapped in the problems of everyone else;
step after step pouting like a lemon.
Kindness forces those seeds out -
then lines them up at the edge of the sink.
You can tell when kindness has swept over you -
it leaves the hair curled on your shoulders
and weeps the willow out of the branches.
It closes in deep when your hand is empty.
Kindness doesn't ring the bell
it opens the bottom of the window
and one foot at a time
invades the air between the words.
It's the high-top of your sneakers
and the down-low of the secrets you keep hidden.
If you sought out kindness on a deserted street corner
it would be the last vacant glow from the passing cars -
it would not spray rain in your face.
Kindness holds its nicknames in folded squares of paper -
it is the voice as you toss and turn -
the sleep that finally takes your hand.
Kindness is the best of that love
you can only now remember.
Saturday in the Park
If you learn to fly a kite I guess it would be the windy side of the day that
The butter on toast with just the hint of something else.
You would have to check the sky for leftover rain -night shadows
hiding restless messages -
faces of midnight moons hiding behind the stars.
You would be held to higher standards once it lifted into the air -
while it floated people would be close to you wearing you like a scarf.
Eyes following it down the nothing of air - like a million lost roads.
All you know stops making sense with the striped buckets of color and light; it
would dip -
curl high above the sullen pockets of land -
then test the ground and run its finger through its hair.
It would be fierce then frightened.
Solid and uncertain.
You can't lie to a kite.
It knows you in the flick of your wrist - senses you like a cloud.
Kites hear the light gasps of air as you watch it tease and twist -
it acts casual with you but it's more bossy than the sun.
He taught me once about kites in some beige,soft spot of sky.
I ran along side that lonesome string tripping over sand
and the sound of his voice.