Here,

take my hands, cartographers

of such lonely steps, to bear the lamps

and point the way to city streets

where joy

is a monument

you’ve built.

Here,

take these arms, sacred robes

to billow wide and graze the dust

of broken things

you have learned

how to spin

into gold.

Please,

take my voice, the rush

of breath, the lullaby wind

that will carry your static

and song.

Yes,

take these eyes, mirrors

to the shadowed quiet and shuttered heart

that remember

the heat

of your sun.

Here,

sit,

rest.

Tell me everything or nothing.

And know I come

only

with

love.