Empty spice jars

 Tonight I drop heavy as a sack 

into a chair I love 

stained by tears 

and wine and careless 

mirth.  

My favorite chair, shaped lovingly 

by my own tentative gravity

And fix my eyes onto the night 

outside the window and

entertain the tiny thoughts 

that flutter about like fruit flies

sipping sugar from 

a memory—

Visions that stop to call 

but hurry off.  

My eyes linger on the city scape beyond and 

wonder what they are doing in those lighted worlds?

Are they content? Are their roofs caving in?

Are their spice jars empty or full?

I hug tight my qualms but know

I am blessed to have a big warm chair 

to womb me on nights like this 

when I need a mother.