The Gift

Faced with the mountain of ideas 

Another nighttime ends 

Another day begins. 

Today will be a different day 

It will be counted, marked, and recorded as a blessing,  

a gift, like a present 

The present is like a gift. 

Today will be scented by warm apples 

Burnt cinnamon and blue mountain coffee 

Both of my sons will shine 

The first one sleeps late on Saturdays 

The second one comes through my kitchen window  

Another naked morning radiates 

Another orange daybreak 

This present will be different 

I will press my palms together and be silent 

Open my eyes when they’re closed 

Walk in the shadow of the stars 

Stay awake when I’m sleeping 

Today will be a different day 

I’ll hold my self still when they try to move me 

Dress in fine silks 

And blow kisses to strangers 

Some of them are angels 

Watching me face the mountain of ideas 

If you’re lucky You will hear parts of your life played out On a golden harp   The notes outline your shadow Even when you dance without sound Today will be a different day I will cast my soul to ageless Listen to the music I heard as a child I will feel like there’s nothing to lose Nothing to gain And everything  to be alive for. If you’re lucky You will have a present like this. Wrapped as a gift. Given to you like the sunrise. Brighter than full moonlight.

And suddenly,

I was a stranger

Broken in places 

I never knew, speaking in tongues 

Filled with spirits of pure grain,

Aged barrels and vineyards.

The light switch,

hidden across dark walls.

Fingers, aimlessly searching for

new outcomes.

The center remained still, unavailable,

Unbending to tears. 

Arriving alone, lost in a wet silence.

I found you there,

Tossing quarters in wishing wells,

Staring through endless midnights.

I reached for your hand,

Held my heart open to forgiveness,

Asking you to accept my greeting.

Your grip was firm.

Surprised by the new strength,

I stepped back, looked you 

Up and down

And confirmed it was nice to

Meet me again.

There were days I would lean over, pull back the curtain, and watch the world.

My street was a dead end.  Traffic had purpose, Back to mother, Home to wife, Kids with backpacks, candy fingers and Sky blue, school uniforms.

The best times were the mornings. My son preparing for school, I anticipated the greetings, “See you later” or “Talk soon”, Words loaded with time. That’s what I held onto then, time. Waiting for blood vessels to find a way through Donated bone, waiting for burnt nerves to bring feeling back to my leg, waiting in bed, for months.

The afternoons gave me the most to see, A line of birds, perched across phone lines, street lamps covered in black feathers and wings. I watched, as they flew in, stayed for awhile, Then turned to fly away.