I used to write poems for strangers, for friends,
sitting above swimming pools at institutions of higher learning,
lounging in coffee shops looking out on the wind-blown streets
and overlooking the dry river valleys below.
Now I write under rainy skies and look out on ocean views,
staring out into the water to see if love's found it's way back to me.
In the meantime, while I endlessly wait,
I write poems about that meantime, the in-between time,
words which fill that space between
fearing and wondering and knowing what's to come...
poems about the quiet, about what's left, about what may never come,
singing to myself,
as I fade into my own memories,
as I dance alone in a burning room*.
* reference to "Slow Dancing in a Burning Room" by John Mayer
So I see you carrying that fire inside... but how will you put it to use?
Will you light the candles of others and spread some light around?
Or will it be the fire that burns you and consumes you from within?
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