do i wake in the hour of grief to remember
something just out of reach, filled with
disjointed words and half finished sentences
and more than a condition to treat?
a guest, whose train only stops at night
with diamond from coal in exchange
for a glass of water to quench a thirst
or perhaps pen and paper
shall i stand in the kitchen half naked
scribbling on old receipts and grocery lists?
what means little to the day’s din
like warmth from the wood stove on skin
make space for the wayward, starved, and shushed?
those voices of my youth filtered through years
in screen light urging me on until it’s all out
making sense of lead with strands of sunlit gold
put the kettle on and feed the beggar on my stoop?
perched on plush velvet with questions and listening
in the painted studio sharing word play and kindnesses
until next time, for now complete as sun rises
yes! yes!
lose the sleep, drink the tea, make a feast and
answer the late night knock at the door
to meet the stranger who is a savior
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