I am trying to write a poem for you,
Of flowers and meadows that spring
From this page, into your heart
Where I bow heavily
As the fruits that humbly carry
Their weight, brought by a farmer's
Toiling. I write meadow, yet
What spurns from my mind
Is the breadth of a road
Cars piled as would the heads
Of maize during a summer day.
River, I write over. I am straining
To hear the birds, but instead I brave
The lyrics of a song I used to sway to
When I was a child: Love brings back
Old heartaches. A radio blasts across
The street, so I cannot hear the hymns
Of branches rubbing against the sharp
Rays of the sun. Here, in my study,
I cannot bear to give you
This drabble melding
With the heat of the streets. You
With the grace I pray for. This,
For there would be no other means
Of writing you, Other
than saying Here I am
Writing a poem for you,