Dear Something, by Drew Myron
Dear Something Like Birdsong,
I remember your stillness.
* *
Today the memory of you is distant.
A throat clears in the next room. A jaw clicks open.
A shoulder tightens. You are barely a hum.
* *
Suddenly, it is fall, the waning light of a going season.
You cling to summer. You are a raft on a lake, floating
through endless light. That’s memory, isn’t it, always
in long, warm light. But you aren’t sentimental, do
not give in to hugs or hoorays. You keep your own sort
of distance, mix of sharp tongue and darting hands.
You are a subject, like a season, quickly changing.
* *
Some days I forget to miss you.
Some days I see you in a painting, or in a scattering of thin clouds.
Sometimes I feel you in a photo that is not even you,
yet there you are — all the voices of my life —
in a soft song that will always play.
* *
Dear birdsong and busy mothers.
Dear early dawn and determined dads.
Dear hum and buzz and steady stillness.
I am fine.
* *
It’s Thankful Thursday, a weekly pause to express appreciation for people, places, and things. Big or small, pea-sized or profound, attention attracts gratitude, and gratitude deepens joy.
Please join me. What are you thankful for today?