I'll bet the sky can find you. I'm sure of
this. I cannot. If we were on an island
the world would still find a way to touch
your feet. The winds would comb out your hair, even
if I had no hands to give them help.
Poems don't make the best combs anyway.
They are way too noisy crashing through the
dancing innocent leaves and branches like
inelegant giants. Birds would find your
beauty interesting, as feathers as
something new. Water would easily find
you in its deepest depths. Sun would try, every
new day, I'm sure, to lay its clammy
hands on your sloping shoulders. I don't underestimate
nature wanting to be
always that close to you. Flowers would fly
your name in all the colors without ever
knowing how to spell it correctly. I
would like to say your name to your face. I
can't help it. Words are useless bits of twisted
metal. They cannot find you with a
railroad lantern in each hand. They only
make themselves look like idiots tied up
in more and more sheets of heartbreaking musical
failures. It just doesn't sound good.
Nothing sounds good. You'd want me to never
venture out of the heart's cave again. And
you want me to look through glowing walls at
the stacked and coiling universe and take
a low bow. You need not worry, you said.
You wanted me to accept that the distance
between us is just one dragonfly
away. But the punch was too hard, too real.
It stole more than my breath. It took everything.
I had no idea which way to
go any more. I still just don't know. Maybe
this song will find you. Stranger things have
happened. But it's not me. It's just a single
shattered piece of someone who fell into
a moonbeam and disappeared from view. But
it's worth a try. This open container.