It's hard to capture nothing.

As everything in the universe

sits inside it.

Is it the dust in the air

Or

the crumbs under my feet… 

the sound of the children chatter

out the window

 Or the hiss heard

in the silence

of the room

when the radiator

turns on?

No,

these

are nothing.

Remnants of everything.

 Where is the nothing?

 I look for it in the soft evening light of winter…

but then I see it, I think,

the hard, bright, shapes of light of the long days of summer

I think I might smell it

on your fingertips

Her skin

His neck.

The red geranium keeps blooming,

I dead head it collecting all that it has lost

allowing space for a new bloom.

While I keep searching for a way to show all the nothing.