Whatever there is in me
that sights the moon mornings
is you.

Whatever in me
alights in sun, in winter
yahoos it through
the windows, zesting warmth
like lemons,
is also you.

Whatever would, weirdly, if I were a bird,
hook its orange beak (or maybe its
orange toes)
(in the best of ways) to hold on to you
the way that cold days hold on
to hot tea and unwinding to
a breeze is what in me
holds on
to you,
only handed–

Whatever gives rise–be it green
or unseen–
writ or just
there is in me that someone
might care for–
is whatever is tinged
with you–

It sings

And, me, I says,
praise be,
oh, so freely
in the we


Here’s another draft poem of sorts and pic.   



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5 Comments on “To:”

  1. hedgewitch Says:

    Love, or the Divine, or even Divine Love(with or without caps) sings through this, a sonata of solace the heart makes into melody from the random notes of what it is given–I don’t know that there is any stronger way of expressing love than to merge one’s own self into it, the giving and receiving of it, as here.

    • ManicDdaily Says:

      Thanks–it is a bit of an odd poem. I was going to post a romantic (ha) pic, but honestly, it felt like a broader love than that, though I was a bit all over the map with it–something to reconsider maybe at a later date. Thanks again. k.

  2. Brendan Says:

    Lemon zest is such a pungent arousal–here it is “tinged with you,” is that which our beloveds grace us with just by being there, by loving. It comes back through the day to “praise” the hours. Amen. Cup of that tea, please, with a little lemon zest.

  3. Kerry O'Connor Says:

    I can only imagine how happy this poem would make the one it is meant for. I hear shades of e.e. cummings in your phrasing, and can appreciate how this is written from the heart, with art and love.

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