A Pome a Day for a Year

Heaped, stacked, placed, arranged.
Grey fabric cups billowed down
as resting place for the exalted.

Sofa as to be haven for wreaked bones
memory folded and warped around
the lengths of locomotion.

Physically this escape perpetrates
but mentally the barbs remain lodged
in between elbow joint and ball socket.

Words and electric mailings caught
within axons of cranial whisks
and whipped into today’s fears.

Just one relaxing spot,
just a series of clouds floating through
and forcing negatives past vision.

Rain away sadness and allow comfort
and bounce as free-fall takes
and supportive mounds a rescue.

A grasp so delicate, so swaddled
as if to be that carrier of yore,
fleece lined prisons of safety.