just a poem.

Starting new
these waking morning yawns feel faintly familiar
these shy uncertainties like an enlivened wire
I remember
As these accusations I pour over you
They slow from their flight
So I steal them and hold them and bring them
to your feet
pushing them beneath the earth
You and I and all of these people
constructed from unrefined earth
it is no surprise anymore
but it is not ours
to bring life to these comings with our fingertips
it is not ours to fight
to announce them through lips
These things, they have been finished
You are not the answer to me.
I am not the answer to you
But this is right.
Mine is to smile, deeply, fully
Yours is to bear the weight of it
Mine, to see when you can't
Yours, to hold tight to my hand yet
Knowing when to let it go
As we fight and slow and run and rest
waiting for that which is true
and living in that which is true.
And now, these wonderings I pour over you
dreams you and I have not been shown
and have yet to hold
I want them to take flight
knowing now, that it is finished
that the Writer has a Voice
that this could be right.