My love,
You were raised
with your father’s ideals
but by your mother’s
pragmatism.
When talents first bud
upon your hands,
you clapped for joy
and squished them
between your palms,
making room for more,
but not height
for growth.
My love,
You spy the light
on the other side
with delight,
for look, a dream!
But know the cavern
with which lies
beneath the bridge,
and the many bodies
littered
beneath.
My love,
You are just that:
love.
Full and bursting
for wish to fly,
yet hand and hand
with the earth
and ground,
doubtful your newly
budded wings
could take all
your loves
with you.
My love…
I wish I knew
the path
to the other side,
or at least
the guide
who knew you well
and could direct
your path.
I wish I knew
the spell
the magic
in which to fill
your still wet wings
with warm breath,
enough
to lift us all.
But all I have,
and I hold out,
is your heart.
Author T.S. Lowe 