A Note Left Unread

The spine of that book

you always meant to start

is waiting for your thumbprint,

for the way only you notice

the perfect sentence on page 40.

Your chipped coffee mug,

the one that fits your hand just so,

it sits on the counter

expecting the steam of tomorrow,

feeling lonely without its twin.

Those clothes you love.

the splash of bright yellow, the reckless emerald green

they hang in the closet.

ready to reflect the fierce, particular light.

They haven't turned gray yet. 

Who else knows that specific, tiny joke?

or the way you hum off-key

when no one is listening?

It's a chord no one else can strike.

Christmas letters are waiting to be written,

full of sharp, kind wit

and the silent, steady love

you haven't even finished giving yet.

The ground outside is hard.

But Spring hasn't forgotten the promise.

It's preparing the pink of the cherry blossoms.

and those tiny, hopeful bulbs

need you to be here to witness

their yearly, impossible arrival.