Last Search
I went fishing in a glassy sea,
on an endless tide called Search.
Cast my net of clumsy words,
watched them sink past pop‑up reefs
through banner‑bright jellyfish.
What did I seek?
A recipe for moonlight,
measured in teaspoons of sparkle dust,
folded into the batter of a Tuesday night.
Why?
Because the cupboard was bare,
a wondering kettle kept sighing.
Bored as stars too far to follow,
I needed something warm
to pour into the hollow of my hands.
I found it, too
tucked between a cat video
and a forum thread arguing
about the proper name for the smell of rain.
(Petrichor, peppered the page,
as if let-in on a secret.)
The kettle whistled a softer tune,
and the moon tasted faintly of cinnamon.
.