I Want to Write Something Beautiful

I want to write something beautiful,

to gather each bead of condensation

from my soul's sunless side,

that marbled puddle a reflection

of the linen moon that braves the day.

I want to crawl inside my pen

and float asleep in that warm ink,

wake reborn as scripted pillars,

my dreams transcribed

into the memories of sandstone.

I want to breathe out truth forever—

speak the melody of winds:

the voice of bronze and golden leaves,

of porch front chimes and tickled blinds;

to swell the patchwork sails of clouds.

I want to stop the roaming continents,

to let those tectonic plates recline

as I knead my fingers

in their dark and loamy skin

and tow them while they rest.

I want to guide the blackbirds toward migration;

to remove the errors by statisticians;

to deliver gifts to homes without a chimney;

to write a thank you note for every star,

an apology for every prayer,

a reminder to the clocks that we don’t always ask they spin.

I want, one day,

before I have our final question answered

to find an ivied cottage,

a quilt still grasping how to warm,

a pen whose heart begins to ease,

as I finally sit to think to write

something someone believes is beautiful.