I’ve always wanted to write of you
but I don’t know how to hold your beauty
You are a story
that can’t be told well enough
and a living poem
that I can write but can’t claim
because you are so you,
to be mine.
There’s a photograph of you
slightly blurred as though the hand taking it was in motion,
and the imperfection of focus
makes the sun soft over your skin,
slender bones shadowing over you, subdued.
There are berry bushes and pink bloomed trees
I think you must be in your mother’s yard
sitting over the outdoor table, worn wood
and she must have been cooking for you,
or just had,
because she always was,
This was after you started loving her again.
This was after you grew strong
I hurt for you,
for a while-
you were frail and breaking
and let yourself be broken-
sad twigs, strewn and torn,
but you’re better now
and to say like steel
doesn’t speak truthfully.
To be like steel is simple and hard
and cold, bitter,
You are flowers on trees
and in gardens
and how even when wind
tears petals from the sepal,
withering and scattered over concrete
dirt dispersed among the mess of storm,
you are still beautiful.
You are every color on the binding of books
that lay over a dusted shelf
and the layers of bark on a tree
when you put your nose to it
and recognize the way childhood smelled,
remembering the subtleties of living
which suddenly defines all that ever mattered.
I shatter too-
When I do
you are what lifts me.
I wish I could explain how you are my moiety,
the part of me which would be lost by now
had I never found you.
This picture captures everything
I don’t know how to say about you.
Not your hair,
but the color it has when the sun warms over it,
and not your hair,
but the way it streaks dark
over the flaxen light
on the side of your face
as though it were the shadows of trees
when walking through woods,
Not your eyes or how they are big and dark
and made up,
but how they are soft
Even the way your white shirt
folds and creases
as it hangs off of you-
the gentle movements of this
and it’s modest tone in color,
not the shirt itself.
There’s an object in the bottom corner,
blue and rounded,
maybe a coat or a sled misplaced from the seasons before
and a child’s toys
hardly made out from the other side of bushes,
Somehow these objects are evocative of being
and how without them,
you could be a painting.