Saturday, March 10, 2018

a 43rd birthday poem for my wife

leaking through each attempt
is hope. this hope, that hope; that
someday when
all will be well, and

maybe that day is
a long way off, or
really, really close.
it doesn't matter. not really--
eternally we are prisoners

vying for the moment, to
appear in our fullness, then or
now. let it reveal itself slowly, or

violently--it doesn't matter.
let it whisper
incessantly, with each breath, or
emerge with a startling rush of wind.
that would be good.