Offerings in the Grass

No one else’s feelings are your own,
Not to own or hold or keep
Not even to send back as cliffs to voice.
You can fan them, as a fire,
You can hold your looking glass close
Show them who is fairest
And who lives in fear;
But don’t your arms grow heavy with the weight?
Don’t your soft hands bleed against the silver?

Better to leave offerings
At the depressions in the grass,
The melted bare spots beneath the trees
If your heart longs to feed something,
If your fingers crave the feel of fur.

Every word is only an invitation,
A wall, or a request.
If you want to walk with me
And notice every beautiful thing,
I will meet you exactly
Where our two paths cross
Exactly when the time is right.

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