She comes to me,

Always she comes to me like a moth to a flame

She comes to me.

My eyelids flutter open

She sits close to me and I can hear her breaths from behind me

She sighs and crosses her legs and rests her papers on her lap

She leans close to me and she speaks

She speaks of things she is observing, observed

She is finding language of the past and present, language,

She furrows her brows and speaks some more

To me,

Why is this that or that this?

She wants to know, because I don’t think that was right.

Is what she said.  She is thinking….I say, yea you are thinking

She comes to me, again and again she comes

She pours out her findings like sand at my feet,

I pause at the treasures she brought to me

I analyze them,

We talk, we talk we talk,

Tomorrow she will come to me again

She always come

I seem to be the flame

I will warm her heart, her mind, her soul

I will warm and fire up her imagination

And stir her language

That she will have a story, find a way, give love

Live, be compassionate, change things, make things,

Bring life through language.

She will go to them

She will tell of things, long past, things to come

Things to know, she will sit in circles and in rooms

Under trees, on grass beds, leaves in her hair

She will dance like a dervish flinging her language

To all who will receive,

From my perch in Elysium I will nod and point her out

To the others so privy.

Is pride allowed in Elysium?

 

 

Lmh. 11/20/2017