They sat in his closet,
His shoes.
In the comfortable dark.
They seemed like him;
Well worn, and content.
I looked them over
Believing they were homelike,
Believing they were soft,
Unlike the hard soles I wear;
The small and binding ones
That sometimes give blisters,
Making me feel that his shoes
Would be much nicer to wear.
"Try them", he said,
And he handed them to me;
So I put them on.
And they didn't seem so bad.
"Walk in them", he then said.
And once I'd walked a mile, or so,
I felt the pebbles that had migrated
into the tears that I hadn't seen before,
I felt the roughness of the tread,
already exhausted from endless journeys;
I bent to disentangle the laces,
frayed from having been tied,
and retied.
My feet hurt.
I put on my own shoes.
They felt different.
They suited me more;
with new-found room to grow.

Her antique brush
Lays silent on the vanity
Silver winding through white
In an intricate maze
Lincoln’s copper disk
Sits alone on the roll-top desk,
Retired from the morning toss
On the tight blue bed sheets
The oak rocking chair,
a lonely wooden statue
And at the foot of the bed,
The cedar hope chest rests,
empty.

What dreams do you hold deep inside,
Guarded by golden silence?
What worlds await behind those eyes,
On the edge of lavender twilight?
Tell me what things you've seen
Which visions came surrounded in sweet sleep;
What fears have flowed out from the dark,
And rolled quietly down your cheek?
Give me your hand and whisper to me
The things you wonder about
What hopes might come into the light;
Those wishes locked away in doubt
Take the heart I've offered you, the one that is my own,
Unlock the secrets of a soul far too long alone
Then dare to trust at any cost and search the universe
You’ll find not one, who has loved without pain,
Yet …  all realize love’s worth.