I wrote the poem on air, and that was enough
to reach the ears of clouds.
I wrote the poem in a dream, enough
to reach the ears of the dead.
But to write the poem on a blog, now
that might reach some woman at her desk,
fishing for distraction,
some woman searching for a key
to unlock the moment of her desire.
The other morning, early, I was running
through a field.
A heavy frost left tall grasses petrified.
I felt grateful for the familiar –
the cold November air, as it should be –
and found myself praying
that my great-greats should know such mornings.
I found myself calling for a strong body,
a soft, clear spirit,
and solid emotions, rooted in frozen ground.
I was writing the poem on the air.
It was enough.
But then the poem came back in a dream,
more demanding this time.
Someone needs to read this poem, it said.
Some woman at her desk, in her car, on her way to or from
or neither nor.
Some woman moving towards herself,
despite fear and discouragement.
Some woman letting light shine through a peekhole.
Some woman commuting between lives.
This could be my sister or some stranger.
It could be you, reading, wondering
what would happen if you opened
that door to some idea, a dream.
Fear can’t keep up when you’re running fast.
Stop and find her panting beside you. Slow down!
Later that same running poem-on-air day, these words
came from a friend: “More questions are good.”
So the poem is written, on air, in a dream,
on a blog, in your eyes.
You glance at the door, the handle.
Imagine turning it, walking out, stepping into.
Between the gas station and the office,
the daycare and the cafe,
between the school and the courthouse,
the gym and the DMV,
where ever you are off to or into today, a poem circles
around your head, the words like little birds, your very own
angels, whispering and patient.
Let them hover, let them accompany you.
Your steady hum is heard.
I see you.