De Jackson

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Morning

He lays
the lily
on the fresh new plot of grass,
the shade of the maple
dappling his skin;
wonders how to hold
this hollow helix of grief
and doubt and loss
in just two hands.

He stands
hours later
heart empty
hands full
of her earth.

De Jackson pens ad copy, wrangles tweens and doodles tiny poems in the margins of life. Her words are beginning to appear in small journals, fun anthologies and the like. De hails from Vegas, adores Lake Tahoe, and scribbles daily at whimsygizmo.wordpress.com.