Of many reasons I love you here is one.
The way you write me from the gate at the airport.
So I can tell you everything will be alright.
So you can tell me there is a birdtrapped in the terminal.
All the people ignoring it because they do not know what do with it.
Except to leave it alone until it scares itself to death.
It makes you terribly sad.
You wish you could take the bird outside.
And set it free or call a bird-understander.
Come help the bird.
All you can do is notice the bird
And feel for the bird.
And write to tell me how language feels impossibly useless.
But you are wrong.
You are a bird-understander.
Better than I could ever be.
Who make so many noises
And call them song.
These are your own words.
Your way of noticing and saying plainly.
Of not turning away from hurt.
You have offered them to me.
I am only giving them back.
If only I could show you.
How very useless.
They are not.