Third Week of Lent

I don’t like poetry much

Fragments everywhere

Needing to read between the lines

Juicy language egging you on

But wouldn’t you know it

Love presses between the lines

Demanding receipt or rejection

Like a mother searching to lock eyes with her child

No matter how independent they’ve become

A call to rest, to come home

A soundtrack that plays on

Sometimes so loud it’s a wonder

Other times so faint it’s a mystery

A back rub that continues well after you’ve fallen asleep

911 without travel time

The shade of a tree willing to uproot and follow you into the desert

Love absolves and presents

A safe deposit box sturdy enough for secrets

Big enough for piles of junk

With a special place reserved for deposits of doubt

Insured against theft or natural disaster

I don’t like poetry much

But there it goes again

Only visible for a moment

Leaving behind this bloodied deed of trust

Written in my name