Reaching, Weaving

Before the sun, before
the birds, before the little
girl cries out to be held,

there is a space between dream
and waking when I wonder what
to do. I am considering how

to best love you. At any moment,
something could happen.
Something happens even now

when I hold you in my thoughts
with such great tenderness
that the moment becomes an open wing,

and though I am still a question
lingering from the morning’s dark,
this tenderness softens everything.

At the keyboard, I am typing,
but really I am trying to weave
the sunlight into words so that you

might wring it out and it would spill
into your skin. So much is in
the receiving. These are the rituals I keep:

thanking the sun each morning
for rising. The pouring of hot water
for flower-laced tea. The writing

of poems. The humming of songs
to the sky. This holding a space
for love and not knowing.

These prayers infused
into small black type.
These crazy attempts to fly.

One thought on “Reaching, Weaving

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