May I write for you? I ask beneath a storm: beneath waves of wind and rain.
Your yes matters and is never not given. This is what saves the world, and those who are in it, or believe they are.
Yet we make it something it is not - or yearn to. Maybe I just want to sit with you a while.
Maybe I want to sit quietly with you at a cafe and drink coffee and talk about Gertrude Stein and why we like this color instead of that one. There are used bookstores everywhere, and we could make their owners rich.
We could circumnavigate familiar and unfamiliar ponds. The mountain laurel is like cotton candy, and forget-me-nots bloom on both sides of the trail.
When I write for you, I am lifted. When you give to me your own writing, I am lifted all the more.
How lucky we are to have found each other! How lucky to be a beloved other's "you."
I dreamed of this a long time, you know. And want only now to be honest: to merit the teaching: to be steadfast and true.
This is my best prayer: how happy I am. Outside or inside doesn't matter the way we think.
I walked a long time to get here, many of the miles cold and alone. You were the light I followed: the radiance I name home.