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Perhaps I won't state I love you. Instead, I'd show it every day. My actions speak. Hear what they say.
Behind the bankers praising gains, a critic picking at his stew, and theorists thrashing formulas, a former waitress sips her chai then calmly writes new verses which will save a life someday. Florescence
The past no longer limits me. I drift on wind and live as free above the houses, mountains, clouds, the cities gripped by anxious crowds, alighting where I will by day whenever I decide to stay. You find me fragile, mock my might, but can you lift yourself in flight? Some dub me inessential, small, but my effects affect us all as I exert these tiny wings and set in motion larger things. If you should hear me, let me teach that transformation's in your reach: you could turn into something more, become a living metaphor, inspire others to aspire to beauty, truth, existence higher than empty
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Let earthquakes rage and rivers rush, volcanoes blaze and comets crush. Let stars – all time – go disappear. My love for you would still be here.
I crawled too far through dirt and hurt to disregard this urgency to overgrow all former selves alight my spirit on new winds with weightless wings pure buoyancy to soar me there where I could be: among the blossoms brilliantly.
No, life's not wholly vanished here. You only have to look for it, behind, before, between these leaves, above the broken ends of branches where one small bluebird takes its pause and, higher up, two crows await more flocks of darkness, which must come, (like death, for some, but not to me) to take the place of foliage and caw the forest from its wake until a flurry turns to whiteout and winter seems to clean the slate entirely, but not quite so: for even then there shall be birds, an evergreen not far away, fresh berries barely visible, the flashing reds of cardinals, a wispy chimney up the
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Remember drowning. Master swimming. Transmigrate toward your new beginning.
