(for Maya)
I want words to breathe like I do, weep when I do, and bruise easily.
I want words to dream and remember those dreams that first set me on this path.
I want words to grow old with me and become like the lines in my face and tell me
old stories that keep my stumbling spirit from falling and new ones that tell of
love forever young and freely given.
I want words of no regret even for the sorry waste of all I have left undone, unsaid.
I want words to hold up a mirror and see there all who at some time have gone hand
in hand with me through this life.
O what a wondrously crowded reflection that would be, all of them in the morning
of their lives, young and old alike.
O that words would fall like these tears and mark the page in silver and gold, the true
colors of night, that these words would live on in their hearts and find some rest there,
though I myself be nothing but the sound the restless wind makes on a cold night,
the wind that sweeps down the mountainside and past all the houses in which loved ones
have died and gathers up all those lost souls and scatters what is but dust and ash
through the deep space of time.