To the girl who lives beneath the furrowing brow, the heart held tensely in a rib-cage of self-doubt:
I know where you take refuge. Beyond a morning blackened with thunderclouds you run free in a meadow where your joy contages sunflowers and the offspring of dandelions.
Barefoot with calloused soles, even the stones that poke your feet are sacred to you. No heart is too jagged for you to love.
To the girl crouching under a heavy unhappiness, I know you grow tired of the same old story. Your limbs shake every time another layer is added on, not sure if you can bear the weight of much more. You hope for the ending but it never seems to come.
I, too, wish we could be done– done with making enemies out of emotions; done with self-deception deceiving even those beyond self; done with avoiding finishing poems out of fear that they won’t reveal the truth of the entire world.
You hold this poem in the smallness of your hands, embracing it the same way you would a cricket or an ant.
I thank you for continuing to hope. You are unafraid of the deepness I dare not touch. My cries of “I’d rather stay right here” are a faint whisper in the wind. Someday I’d like you to teach me to accept change with radiance like the trees in autumn.
In the middle of that meadow you sit sturdy like a faithful guest house. You entertain the fear and the sadness, allowing them to be to their fullest for the duration of their stay. Even the thunderclouds come to dine, and insist they will leave by morning. Though, it’s no trouble if they don’t–
You welcome them all the same, with freshly cut flowers placed on their weary beds and the curtains drawn open, so they might watch you as you run in the field towards endless light.