Monday, June 7, 2010

Dear Michigan (what is love but an opening of the possible),

This post is my attempt to make up for not posting last Friday. I'll post again tomorrow and this Friday, but starting next week I'll just post on Fridays. I hope that's okay. Working overtime, trying to find a job out there, and coming to see you when I can make writing two posts a week a little challenging. Once I'm out there, Michigan, I'll have more time to devote to bi-weekly posts, as I won't be looking for a way to get out there to be with you.

Below is a poem I wrote back in December. It still needs a lot of work, but I thought I'd share it with you. I hope you don't mind. It's a winter poem I guess (hence the winter pic), but it's really an anytime poem, an every day I see her poem. It's a poem about love, but even more it's a poem about loving youself enough to let yourself love. Anyway, Michigan, I ramble. You should probably know this about me. Chances are you've figured that out already. I miss you more than I have words to say, but I'm searching for those words. And I'm searching for a way to be there, to watch her spin that I'm-so-loved-for-just-being-who-I-am spin. For just being!

Tomorrow's post will focus on a special place up north and on Friday I'll write about other fun adventures. I'll also write about you, of course, and about Q. Until tomorrow, I hope this poem will work. I miss you Michigan. Each time I'm out there, coming back to NY is harder and harder. It's like my lungs adapt to the air out there, so when I'm here it's so much harder to breathe.

What is love but an opening of the possible?

– from “Target” by Jason Koo

I watch thru the window, you
on the pond moving snow,

trickle of coffee at my ear,
watch you hesitant

to stay where the surface is clear,
as if your feet might fail you,

so you push on, mind the edge
and all its hidden dangers,

but then you’re done
and you glide out to the spot

where you once went down,
you spin, there, arms wide,

pulling them in as you build up speed,
pulling them tight to your body,

like a long embrace,
and I’m at the door now, breathing

some of that same cool air,
steam rising from my hand

as I drink, and I watch,
and I hear you call my name.

No comments:

Post a Comment