All I want is to see you dance the
way a toddler does at a wedding
in the rain
after the music has stopped
before the cake is cut. All I want is
to see you child and free.
All I want is to hear you sing the
way a robin does before the morning
shines on the dew
after the roosters have crowed. All I want is
to hear you sing for the roses and sunflowers,
for the does and rabbits, for the grass and the breeze.
All I want is to feel the blue of your eyes
scanning the skies for the next joyful song
in the meadow
after the picnic and
before the quiet stroll home. All I want is
to feel you like a cloud embracing the
naming of your day, the meaning of the
beloved, the skipping stones across a crystal
lake.
All I’ve said, and left unsaid,
I’ve stuttered far too often, and muttered
to myself afterward that
everything I say has too many meanings.
I want to play, and simply play, to dig
in the sand,
to tell you the ocean belongs to you.
Here is my heart. It’s damaged I know.
Here is the me-of-me, sometimes making
mud pies I pass off as birthday cakes. Until
you taste it, and somehow say it’s the best cake
you’ve ever had.
Here is the sorrow of me, the hammered part that
only wants to play the music that will help you
dance.
Here is the insanity, only wanting the lyrics that
fill your mouth with songs and joy.
If the morning allows, I will show you the sun
beaming on the tulip fields,
and slowly walk away as your
aches are healed, your face shines
new like noon,
your eyes, sometimes red with tears,
wide open like summer.
If the morning allows I
would bring coffee and conversation,
and tell you I understand,
and will always, until the last dance
on faltering feet,
understand even better than before.
