My one true love was a letter
And for tears upon which I stood,
It grew up through pieces of plastic
searching through years of days
For grass, for fir, for wood, for flight
it grasped my fight to see a world
in which a pen slices a screen
to where it is truly open,
where an eraser smashes a button that sits in the near top right corner of the keyboard,
pulling it out with a great force
and then a greatest force
that glides my graphited, guiding hand
to little children everywhere
Effortlessly encouraging them to keep the memory of my true love alive.
But they don’t.
They breathe my true love
They work him into their magical minds and small hands
They bend the shapes around them that try to shape who they become
into sprightly pieces of paper, fluttering to the ground.
And as I bend to pick up the pieces,
my one true love approaches me
and then not all at once
but awe-inspiringly builds up a mountain
for me to climb
made of only him, the letter
And from all the corners of the earth,
he sits from the palm of a child’s hand
to the lap of mine own
And I read him like a book
my one true love.
(July 29, 2013)