All day a boy plunges his hands into his pockets.
Tickets, tape, crystallized stones, a two-dollar bill.
He will not wear pants without pockets.
It is a point of honor.
He sleeps as deeply as the crackle of the burning log,
the breath of the far-flung sea.
Where are you world? Don’t do anything
while I’m not paying attention.
Reprinted from Fuel: Poems by Naomi Shihab Nye ( BOA Editions Ltd., 1998) by kind permission of the poet.
I sent him from home hardly more than a child. Years later, he came back…
So many colors abandon the earth, and go skyward to the trees like origami birds,…
may there be a listening rather than a making curiosity over expectation, lightness and ease,…
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