A poem falls short; I'd like, instead
to draw a single line from me to you
and watch it curl into a word
so beautiful it's still unsaid –
or press paper to the window pane
so that the day might saturate
a note that brightly warms your hands,
spills birdsong from imagined trees
and buzzes like fat bumblebees,
but I am bound by language, love; I can't.

How come
   the present does seem
   remote and the long
   past as though recent?
   yet looking at the prism
   of time, the future
   appears to have happened
   in conjecture and imagination

   not three
  but a single person
  living in three dimensions
  
  what counts above all
  is individual freedom
  assured so seldom--
  too many indeed
  are trapped in self-prison

  to make sense
of this perpetual conundrum
a long net of life
I'll hurl to harness
the divisive
and have it transformed
into a single collective
I'll know sans doubt then
I've arrived at the wholesome.

Take it now
And fold it over
Toss it in the water
This is healing
Growing in an
Ever expanding
Motion
If you look out
To the ocean
What do you see?
Maybe you
Can go there
Once more
Finally (Feel free)
The moment
Your toes touched
The sand on the shore
Maybe you
Can heal
Some more
Folding over
In emotion
Left it there
For a little while
It's ever expanding
I remember
That time...
I can reach
Out
And touch it
Once more

I’ve never understood the phrase
Your kindness is your weakness.
If it’s weak being kind in a world
That is so often cruel,
Then I will happily be
The exception to the rule.