I found a poem this morning
along with God
where your hands had been
to carry me from my own darkness,
the shadow of the hunting hawk
over winter
where patient leaves
fell
and the entire forest
of our love
was revealed.
I've always left part of my truth
in a paper shell
to someday burn
and send as sacrificial ash
into the sky.
These little envelopes
never met the flame
filling space in my ribs,
sheltering my heart
when i was trying to build a home.
If I've said something now
that hurts you
causes grief
tears down a barn we were drafting
on the kitchen table,
ruins the garden like a thick frost over sprouts,
it's my way of opening your beautiful hand
to my vulnerable chest
to burn the past
so we can call this truce
a new freedom.