by Darryl Price
Your precious feet were there once pressed against the
familiar floorboards when your poems suddenly appeared to you
like lightning. I wonder which window they came in?
Here's a thought: you were like a window. You
caught all that light in yourself and let it
shine through. You were the one the wind was
being lovely for up in the nearby trees, fluffing
out all the leaves like a bird showing off.
You were the one the rushing stars were spinning
faster and faster for to get your focused attention,
to look into those eternal eyes again and again.
I'm sure the occasional rain only wanted to be
closer to your inside movement and was willing to
settle for anything on your windows if that was
all there was left in the world for it.
And then there's that little bitty writing desk, it
fit no one else like it fit you, your
lamp like a mighty little lighthouse sending its flickering
beams against the shadowy walls to warn off any
incoming ships of fools. I am one of those
fools make no mistake, Emily. All of your flowers
must have loved the time of your coming to
water them, to lift their heads in admiration, your
fingers in the dirt around their roots like God's
worms, digging, tending, healing. That absence must have been
felt through each and every garden in the world,
I know it is in mine. And yet there
is still a tender, comforting response happening today for
the constant reading of your amazing letters to the world.
I should know. This poem's my own letter back.
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Just a thought.