His laugh and bright eyes are the nail in the
coffin of my broken days
The words of hope spring from his lips and
pour over the rent and tilled soil of my memories
I feel the symphony of his voice, wind making leaves dance,
drawing green-sprout smiles from my mouth-corners
He wraps my organs with his strong arms and shakes loose
the dark beads of bitterness until it tickles
He thanks me for my stories
And I thank God for him, and for teaching him the
same language that my insides speak
So I know, no matter where I put my roots, there are those for
whom I won't need to translate or paraphrase
5.18.16
Dedication: For you. You don't know who you are, but thank you.
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