Jacqueline Jules, three poems


Counting Value

A Tibetan monk spends weeks

carefully pouring colored sand,

intricate geometric designs

he will dismantle and sweep

with solemn ceremony.

A chef chops and sautés,

drizzles the plate with tasty flare

to hand off for quick consumption.

While I stand

beneath a tree in April

enchanted by the flutter

of pink petals drifting

gracefully to the ground.

No one belittles beauty

for being brief.

Yet when you emerged

from my body,

bloody and squalling,

I believed success

would be measured

in days outlasting mine.

As if the value

of your life

could only be

counted in years.

Kix Not Cheerios

She stamps tiny feet on the tile,