You Who Never Left

Blessings arrive after noon, like the first time I read Emily Dickinson. Cardinals reach the feeder, bolts of red in the plainer light of day. I think of you, who never left and yet - somehow - cannot be reached.

Between snowflakes, a prismatic welter of blue and violet and gold. I dream of horses and funeral bells and wake up forgiven. Who gives assent to love through language is bound to repeat it, day after day after day.

That yes and no other. To my surprise, even the trails count the days until you come to walk them with me. The dog waits by the bridge and I lose a glove running to her.

Certain letters I avoid, others I savor. Who wants an explanation gets chains and a cage. May I share the songs and poems that bear your name?

Don't stop writing. Moths settle when the candle is extinguished and the the room fills with the plush of their breathing. I celebrate when you rise.

Falling stars mark the way, or a way. One never knows what the mail will bring, nor what image will at last unleash the Love that for decades went banked and dark. Thus this.

We are not of the world and yet its loveliness burns through me like a hashknife. You, always you.