Sunday, February 12, 2017
I am Listener.
I have a secret buried deep
like a seed in this old house,
on the shore of one of the Great Lakes.
A vintage wedding diamond is in my safe,
one that belonged to my mother,
and was given to my wife
before she died of cancer.
The stone sits alongside a few First Editions,
a manuscript I wrote,
and all my contemplative notes
from the Prophet.
Our painting in words
may outlive the painting collection that ages,
my wife’s photographs that fade,
but only if they die and come to life—as a seed.