I know in my bones, in my depths
For you, you who I hope reads this
When my bones are dust
That to write well means to write of hope.
I suppose, we know, that to say
You are here now is a hope
Of sorts, but what to say now?
Don’t pass them on to another dear one.
I know you think it a gift, generous loving,
Thinking their appreciation will blossom
And you’ll share the sun.
The seeds blow away and leave
You rooted under old dying
Birch trees – their bark dusting you gray.
Don’t believe a word they say,
Even if yours are true, even I
Swear as I swear this pen is mine
Because we are as rare
As this moment. And these precious times
May not be worth the chipped
Porcelain that got us here
And the hope I am unable to give you now
Without truly great poetry.
Because you should do better.
Become great by heeding my words,
So many will never mean what they say
Or do what they mean.
Never expect more or try to teach them
What beauty could come from it, for it.
Just keep meaning it. Mean you.
Mean your love for meaning always.
Not in seeking meaning, but knowing the meant
Honor meaning what you say, truth is less important
But used more often.
Seek meaningful people who find you meaningful
Despite your quirks and then find truth in them, dear one.
And let those truths become beautiful with meaningful currents.
Then great new truths, sometimes loud so that they shake
The fabric of the world.
Sometimes sans sound that they shake the very soul.
There is hope here.
Find it, my precious reader, my beautiful one.
When my bones are dust, like ink on this page, sacred scattered across time with no body to remember more.