We built the first bed you would sleep in with perfect right angles
so that you might see straight and appreciate the brevity of perfection.
Would you see things through the same lens, or will you find
your own kaleidoscope to look with, scrambling the colors to fit?
We talked about the person you might be, the person you will be
and if we could respect the way you would mold the world to you,
asking the sunset if it might melt one more day as beautiful
so you could find shame and hope the shades shout to the fading light.
We ready those things we can and question if those we can’t
might somehow be convinced to bend this once, just this once,
bend to form a bower and bed for you to find and cherish,
but the world walks its own road, taking what turns it pleases.
Under roof and blanket a silky quietness awaits your breath to disturb,
but under flowing sun and steaming night the blackness holds colors
not seen through our eyes or smelled through our throats,
a collection gathered just for you by the deaf and sticky heart of living,
and we wonder about the person you might be, the reason you’ll find,
and we wait silently, sullenly, smoothly, excitedly for you to cast your line.




Filed under Words

6 responses to “Waiting

  1. Jen

    woot – I can leave a comment now! I muchly like.

  2. Norma

    I have appreciated your poetry for years, Dave. Thank you for this! Your journey into “we” is profound. Delighted to come along for the ride. — Norma

  3. Louise

    This is great! I think you are a gifted writer. keep it going. Love to you all.

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