The Poem That Found Me

Taos, New Mexico sky.  Photo taken by Kevin Moul

How much is too?

Is 43 years too many to get it, finally 

to see that it's always been 

here, this nameless something 

that sits in quiet center—to trust 

that this heart feels

just what it came here

to feel

I could call it love

but it's so much more than that

for the man on the street whose eyes 

blink sorrow—breathe hope 

when I give 

just the littlest bit 

of what I have.  I can no longer 

tell the difference between you 

and me and I'm sure

I want it to stay

this way.  

Too sensitive.  Too emotional.  Too dreamy.  Unrealistic.

This morning while I ran, soaked deep 

in Oregon rain

breathing in, breathing out

I waved arms in listening air

and belted out loud 

the words to that song

I couldn’t keep from singing

I'm gonna celebrate and live my life 

even though I didn't know 

if there was someone 

coming around that river-y bend.  It felt glorious 

to not care.

I love you.

Can I say these words too often 

as I lean in close

and closer 

to these eyes—

the ones that have forever looked

for more.

Is four decades too long 

to try and grab hold of

what could never 

be held?

Breathing in.  Breathing out.

Is there such thing as too

if all of it leads 

here

to this that wraps around me

permeates, saturates--satiates

to this that is so much more

than love.

There are wars going on while you write poetry.

I feel your heart like it's my own 

and I don't want this to stop.

Even if it means

I am on my knees

more than sometimes

Thank you poetry for quieting the war.

Until I can find more words 

I'll keep breathing it in

breathing it out

I love you

because 

I do.  

Because when it comes to love

I'm sure

there's no such thing as 

too.