This is for all the people I’ll never meet. 

 This is for the person I might have kissed had I taken a different subway line

on Saturday and the person I might have been

 if that boy hadn’t broken my mother’s teenage heart. 

This is for the people I would have loved if last winter hasn’t been so cold and for the city 

I would have called home if I had written haikus on napkins 

and carried pens in dress pockets and in the knots of my hair. 

This is for who I was, who I am, who I might be. 

This is for you.

 Camryn Pulaski 

The clouds are coming,

but behind them, above them,

the light is waiting.

 Daily Haiku on Love by Tyler Knott Gregson

my mood board today 

“There are poems

that are never written,

that simply move across

the mind

like skywriting

on a still day:

slowly the first word

drifts west,

the last letters dissolve

on the tongue,

and what is left 

is the pure blue

of insight, without cloud

or comfort.”

- Linda Pastan, “There Are Poems”

today

I don’t want to be a tree; I want to be its meaning.

My Name is Red, Orhan Pamuk 

musing

Aurora Borealis, Dalton Highway, Alaska.