From a past journal entry . . I seem to be aware of a depth this morning of a something that shoulders my weight and carries me. That the words I speak have little meaning. They are simply words. And yet, what I would wish is to reach down into an other’s pockets and find the stuff that is collecting there that is never brought to light.
That there is a collection of gems that are never used. And should I be able to do this, would the owner recognize these gems as theirs?
I don’t know. I can already hear them, as with the children in camp when presented with a shoe bearing their name, it is not mine. It has your name on it. No, it isn’t mine.
With Your Name. . .
I spread the gems
on the velvet cloth
and see them sparkle. . .
Not mine, you say,
not mine. . .
but they came from
your pocket, I say. . .
I didn’t have to dig deep.
There is perseverance
with all of its facets,
in the smile of your daughter
whose cost took years
of work to satisfy dental bills.
And the nights of standing
in the icy breath of the north wind
at nearing the midnight hour
to satisfy the young hockey skater
whose dreams only
another parent or brother could understand. . .
And hours on end
to put food on the table into ones
on the run who would again
appear magically for refill
just as the last plate is cleaned. . . .
Not counting the diamonds
your work demanded
as you swallowed your fear to appear
at the breakfast table with confidence
to hopefully infect everyone’s day.
Spilling profusely, I count
the gems before me and
know they are yours because
I reached down into your pockets
and find not lint nor fuzz
but a million diamonds sparkling
with facets shimmering,
with your name.