day TWO HUNDRED and SIXTY SIX

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