Take off your hat. Take off
your smile. Take off anything
you put on to impress me.
Bring me your eyes. Bring me
your Sunday morning. Bring me your
open hands. Let us sit. It does
not matter much if we speak
or do not speak. What is there,
really, that must be said?
Outside the snow is melting.
We both know it will come again.
Outside whatever birds are still here
are not moving from tree to tree.
There is nothing moving, it seems,
but we both know that the world
is made of change. Give me
your weight. Give me your
light. Give me your fear
and your grays and your yes.
And here, here is my sunrise.
Here is my spiral. Here is my apple
tree, my brittle bones, my
deepest well, my empty glass.