things I cannot tell you

I cannot tell you, for example,
that I am resting against the ache
of not seeing you rise in the morning
to sip your coffee at the window

or that the prospect of you
is the hidden sun in my throat
that glows, that pulls roots, and yes,
I would joyfully plant myself beside you

and also, I cannot tell you
that you are my favorite kind of ‘yes,’
my affirmation that the mountain
will not fall from beneath me

and that the whole of my skin
sleeps until you are near enough
to wake it – that all of me resides
inside almost, maybe, not quite

© Sarah Whiteley

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I am in love with
your golden-reds

with the sting
of restraint

with pretending
the sweet salt

of your palm
is mine

© Sarah Whiteley

pretending flowers

light dropped
from a great height
makes no sound still

words now
would be thin and
near to useless

hush, since
it’s futile to
say you are my joy,

and watch
the hummingbird search
the warm, red bricks

pretending
flowers where
there are none

© Sarah Whiteley

Indra’s Net Anthology

I am over the moon to be just one among the many talented writers who have contributed to this new anthology from Bennison Books. To make things even sweeter, proceeds from the anthology will go to The Book Bus, which provides books for children in Asia, Africa, and South America.

Stay tuned! I’ll likely host a mini-giveaway of a copy in the coming days. But if you can’t wait, clicking on the image below will take you where you need to go to get a copy now.

advice to the weary

when air grows heavy and tired
from too long falling,

day’s last birds will dive down
and in rising, shake it out before them

something, at least, is vibrant
is the message beaten out by wings

when you are lost, find stone that will
hold sun with radiant stubbornness

and if you lose your voice,
seek out wide swathes of grass –

for it’s grass that sings when
all other songs have gone

© Sarah Whiteley

hope

this window is just
the idea of sky

in the same way hands
merely suggest caress

human hearts imagine
more than what is given

this ceaseless
invocation is hope

and is the reason for
so many moon songs

© Sarah Whiteley

tangled

tonight the sun
thought to slip away
– secret, unnoticed –

but has instead
become tangled
in the branches
of the plum

which sways as
close to the glow
as it might manage –

in just the same way
I once crossed
a kitchen floor

to taste the warmth
of your torch
against my lips

© Sarah Whiteley