I come to you at a slant, like a reverse sunbeam
from self-imposed exile. Was it easier with manmade ladders?
I’m not sure my sincerity always showed up.
Does it disappoint you that I am not in a row
with the rest, doing my best to fit in, and failing?
Do you mind if the familiarity of sameness and routine
has been cast aside in favor of singing praise
to you like falling rain or as the trees, simply by standing?
I don’t want to hurt your heart
or muddy your name with my red-lettered life.
If you asked me if I loved you I would tell you
I do and always have done.
Saints are called so for a reason and I am not one.
Just a person with a few parts missing
or in need of repair, coming to you
looking for love and absolution.
Some see you as dead as Zeus.
Some don’t see you at all.
I see you everywhere mothering, fathering
tending. Winsome and kind.
It is how the wind breathes into the hair of firs and
the light gleams down on the dead brown grass.
How the birds return in spring and fly away again in the fall that I know.
Perhaps my tears really are in a bottle that you keep.
Perhaps it does matter to you if I bleed.
Perhaps you will forgive my trespasses and
welcome all the versions
of myself that I present to you.
©2018/by Kim Zimmerman/All Rights Reserved