I write a journal in poetry,
or poetic prose.
Ungrammatical, romantic,
coarse,
with the wood, glass, iron of my soul.
I forge a bond with the world,
most with the children of my children,
friends,
the open harbors of travel,
the space inside my shyness.
I am not a link
in some chain of dandelions,
or a Don Quixote searching for a dream.
I am Ted,
looking out the window of a school,
running home with his brother.
Talking to a friend
who I love more than the other,
until I speak to them.
A history,
a story,
an awkward maker
of an out of tune romance.
But oh,
how I sing in love,
in gratitude to destiny
for you all,
for the story.
For the germ that swelled into my soul.
And a soul,
that can’t get big enough
to fill the sky,
make faces at monsters,
watch sails as they fly,
and then dance
until my feet no longer dance,
my knees spring in joy.
In the middle of a world
without cause,
how I treasure all of you,
and shout,
in the only way I can,
I live,
and will end,
in the love and wonder of it all.