The Walk Home pt 2
Dear one,
There will be coffee.
Nights chilly enough to wrap yourself
in your favorite warm things, like
Laughing hard enough
to spill your fever
onto the ground
and write down lists of ways
to make hope
into a sugar glider
so that it will come back and sleep through the days
against your chest
Sometimes no poems are meant to be read aloud,
but instead carried
like cement blocks
on foot
through the snow
But you
are made of such things as
cold, clear rivers. Turmeric. Lightening bugs. Jazz.
smooth skipping stones.
another beer.
steady hands holding paintbrushes, one hundred of them,
all precise
and versed in languages older
than your biggest, most terrible loves.
redwood branches.
You have more limbs today than you had
yesterday.
More room in your chest.
No one can take anything from you.
When you arrived, you were already whole.
