You might pick up this poem
as I would a stone.
Something to ponder, examine.
The stone would reveal its hardness,
but the shape of its heart
would pull my fingers over it,
and it would lie in my hand weightless.
What would my few seconds
be to it,
my soft hands
holding a million years,
the taste of my truth
as you look at, peruse,
feel invisible words,
like the poem you would look at?
Reading the words
that never made it to the page.
The invisible silences of space,
the roads running above
and below the words,
where I came from,
where I am going.
Where I can explain
nothing of myself or the stone or time,
but my teeth taste it.
The salt of my life,
my few moments,
the voice inside me
that can’t be heard,
the face that can’t be seen,
down a path where words stop
and the stone finds itself
captured for awhile.
We all want to be seen,
to be understood,
to be loved,
and remembered,
not for what we were,
but for what we took into ourselves,
and like a wave,
put back,
to be discovered,
love given away without regards.