The next poem I write will be light,

words will pour into the page

like sunshine through white silk curtains,

in a summer home in Tennessee.

The next poem I write will overflow with joy,

stanza by stanza,

Rhythm of each line singing into a bustling theme park,

Lines stretching as long as overdrawn smiles.

The next poem I write won't talk about rain

or clouds

or thunder.

It will have flowers, birds, soft, lush grass.

I'm bringing my writing out of the woods,

and setting up a home on a beach,

somewhere warm and soft,

sand between my toes, salt in my hair.

I think I want to talk about the feeling of warm towels,

of unopened peanut butter and never used lotion.

The feeling of running your hands down aisles and aisles of silk,

even though you know you can't sew.

The sweeping sense of satisfaction of jumping into fresh sheets,

fluffy blankets, one giant t-shirt.

I'm tired of making people cry, or question my own sanity,

I want people to feel the onset of a smile,

or the bubbling feeling of a laugh rising through your throat.

The next poem I write, will be like someone's first Peanut Butter and Jelly.

Sweet, savory, and over too soon.