Dear Henry,

You never knew me,
But your work transcended
Far beyond Walden Pond.

Two centuries later,
I find your spirit in my words.
I hear the wind through your cabin walls.
I trust that a man in the woods speaks louder than a crowd.

Thank you for being the spark that lit my voice.
You wrote my soul before I was born,
You dared my mind to try.
I'm honored to keep your spirit alive.

I will not write of daffodils,
Nor will I praise the rose.
Don't get me wrong - I see their beauty.
I just don't connect to their charm.

Sweet and tender they shine,
Picked, sold, gifted as a treat.
Beauty to look at, easy to get.
I do not want what I haven't got.

Instead, I'll write of sunshine,
Of untamable feral perfection,
Of things that bite
Should you try to claim them.

I'll write of striking composition,
Wilting within our gardened trip,
Yet blooming when undisturbed and wild,
Sharp-edged and stubbornly bright.

I'll write of what my soul needs most,
I'll write of gorse.

She sat alone, beside the door
not asking much, not asking more.

She didn’t wait for steps to fall
but for a glance.
No cry. Just call.

. . .

She wasn’t silent out of fear,
nor lost for words that wouldn’t clear.

She simply held that hush so deep
your broken soul
could rest, could sleep.

. . .

When you were cruel, she did not shake.
When you were low, she’d bend, not break.

She breathed like grass, a quiet thing,
forgave it all, just with a blink.

. . .

You could have left.
Or screamed. Or lied.
Or tossed your anger off with pride.

She knew it all.
She didn’t plead.
She breathed, just breathed
like hope, like need.

. . .

And if you left and never came
past morning’s hush, beyond the flame

she still would sit…
no names, no cries…
and watch the night
as if
it shines.