Love Letter to the World
Here, in this season of dying,
neighbors, three of them in as many years,
spouses and nephews and parents of co-workers,
playwrights, artists, poets, musicians, and actors,
old acquaintances and classmates and teachers
with whom I had not spoken in decades,
all of whom I adored,
friends and family so far from here;
this list growing longer through all of my days.
It is Sunday in eastern Kansas,
under a wide blue and temperate
summer sky, cool sweat on my brow
from a morning mow, I am wishing
I am wishing I am wishing and I wish
for all of us, all of us, more time
in back yards, on porch swings,
around barbecue grills, in living rooms,
in kitchens, in coffee shops, book stores, and bars.
Let us speak to each other
over cups in which we hold
our broken spirits together
where we sip our beer,
drink our coffee, hell, I’ll even brew
strong sweet tea that we can
pour over ice with or without
fine bourbon on the side.
Let us talk of our lives together and separate,
speak softly of things
in our shattered and mended hearts,
tell such stories that weave us into a tapestry
of our larger, collected selves.
Find me here or there or wherever I may be.
Take my hand, grab my shoulder,
then let us steal away to a quiet corner
and enjoy some music or sit in silence,
together in this whole, big mess of a world.
© Shawn Pavey, 2019. All rights reserved.