CALL ME BELOVED

Scratching out lines, so much like living –
words like days spent, rolling out gently and
dragging into long weeks and colder months.
They live and die, the Earth turns
and doesn’t care.

I’m starting to think an audience is important.
When words crash into shore they should hit something,
have arms to receive them. It’s the least they deserve.
I’ve always written to the middle distance – maybe
three or four feet ahead, the beam of light stretching out
and spilling onto the wall. I’ve never asked for a name,
but somebody seems to listen.
It’s enough for me.

I don’t value my opinions much, anymore, but
For now, I will write to you. When I walk home
whispering wishes to the scuffs on my shoes,
I can offer some to you.
It’s a cold Thursday, here –

I hope you’re warm, where you are.

When you left your home this morning, I hope
you could kiss your lovers forehead.
I hope that kiss, for you too, is enough
to bring you through cold, gray days –
a small act you carry with you.
It holds you, like loving arms.

I hope these wishes go somewhere safe.
The Earth turns, and I don’t need it to care, but
I need to know my smallest kindnesses gather,
like snow on the leaves – soft, and pure
and all together.

2015 Poem-A-Week 06: February 5 – February 11