of hickory-plated emotions,
where dreams could be almost trite,
there were deep roots and tall branches
of the tree of my life,
that brushed my skin
when I stopped in the card aisle.
I am too innocent
to consider that my most jaded sentiments
could be passable in a card, leisurely and soft,
hope under their belts.
My anger melts like ice cream,
sweet and sticky, with chocolate chips,
drips to be caught as holidays and moments
when we can’t forget to send
a wish, a note, a card . . .