there is a poem here.
in new york city.
in the park and how the wind
tangles itself between the trees
in the train
eyes that meet
and touching knees
and all the hearts inside that beat
the wandering souls and wandering feet
there is a poem in new york city
does it belong to me?

in the event of an emergency,
return my eyes to the sky.
my hair to africa.
my skin to the rain.
give my smile to my mother,
she always loved it best.
give my mouth to my father,
my voice as well. make sure it is loud.

return my poetry to my English teachers,
give my words to my brother.
tell him there was so much i wanted to tell him,
give him both my ears, tell him i will always listen.

give my hands to my heart.
my heart will be tucked in my journals,
give them to the boy who loves me.
mail my songs to Maine,
with the letters you will find inside the shoeboxes.
give my feet to New York City,
my laughter to my students.

return my coffee mugs to my grandmother,
my tongue to her cooking.
give my books to my friends,
and both of my shoulders.

if there is anything left,
give it to the earth.
let the birds make of my bones a home,
let the spring find room to bloom.
give my lungs the air they were waiting for.

i want words
for this
for me
for you
i want words
like a river like an ocean like rain
i do not want silence
i do not want to hesitate
i want honey on my lips on my tongue
words dripping from my mouth
hands overflowing
with poetry and song and
i want words

about seventeen years ago,
i prayed you into existence.
i asked for a baby sister;
got you instead.
you are not what i wanted,
but know this: you are wanted.
i am six years older,
but you are always six steps ahead.
when you laugh, and your eyes light up,
i am six again
and you are young and playful and you.

you are here.
hold on to this moment. there is a poem, here.
and at the same time, there isn’t. there is so much more.
this is a moment in which words are not enough.
here lies every moment, every breath, every joy and every hurt:
all that it took for you to be here.
here is love.
the love of your family, your friends, your self.
here is hope.
it was the sun that kept you alive, the roots that kept you grounded, the rain that made you grow.
here is a small moment.
and yet, it is meaningful.
because you are in it.
here.

when i write
i am reaching out for you
(to you)
the belief (hope) that you are out there
that i have seen you
and you have seen
me
there is a longing here
and i have no words for it
and most days,
i can ignore it
but some days
there are no poems
there is only the fire
the longing left behind
the fingerprints of wind on my face
maybe one day
the longing
will move into someone else’s heart
put a ‘for sale’ sign in mine

could you, please,
slow
down?
listen to your heart.
drum.
hummingbird.
house.
wildflower garden, unkempt
but growing.
this is who you are.
wild and messy,
beautiful and
free.