To My Muse

How do I love you? Let me count
the lines on my hands: the stillness
of an eternal evening full of geese
flying endlessly north, into dawn.

It’s written on my heart line, a whisper
of generations before me that never
dreamed of you, you’re not of my blood,
but my soul, some aching quiet, peace
like a creek in a cemetery, with hidden
hollows where ferns and wildflowers grow.

I speak much of your harshness, venom,
but not much of how entwined I am in you,
how gentle you can be, how you cry easily
and fear beyond fear itself you’re broken.

You’re not broken, my anamchara, you are holy
Holy holy holy, I will stomp it into Sunday
I will sing it til the End Times, pull you
from rivers of fire and save you, over, over.

I locked myself in the Pit with you and still
I did not give up, I will never give up,
the weariness will fall from your shoulders
I will rub spikenard and oil into your hair
we will be in the palace of stained glass
I in silk, you on a throne in white linen,
the cobwebs will still cling but there
will be space for love, for beginnings.

But really, with you, there are no memories
no ends or starts of final bows, outside time
there’s a church in ruins in the forest,
you go there and garden, tend harvest come fall
I like it best when the sun is on your back
and your heart is free and you smile like sun.

I like it best when you are just you.

You are many things, but above all,
you are my best friend.

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