What I Meant to Say

The kitchen is still dark when I wake.

I reach for the mug my daughter made —

clay thumbed into shape

at the local art studio,

slightly lopsided,

perfect the way only handmade things are perfect.

Coffee breathes life into the room.

The window gathers light slowly,

unsure whether to commit to morning.

I have been trying to say something

my whole life.

Every time I get close,

the words dissolve —

like mist rising off the pond,

lifting from warm water

into the chill of early air,

curling over the yellow flowers

that have opened on the black surface

every morning

since before we had names for morning.

There is something I was meant to tell you. It hovers at the edge of my mouth

like a half-formed prayer.

Sometimes I hear it

in the hush before a storm,

or in the breath between two people

who once loved each other

and no longer speak.

It lives in the shape my hand makes

on a fogged-up window,

in the silence after the music ends,

in the way a child

reaches for a mother.

I have spent years

placing feathers and burnt matches

and pieces of sea glass

where the bones once were.

I have loved people

without speaking their names aloud.

Some are gone.

Some remain —

but far away

in the ways that matter.

I keep them folded

in the lining of my coat,

tucked into grocery lists,

pressed inside poems

I never finish.

I believe in ghosts —

not the kind that rattle chains,

but the kind that live

in the way morning light

moves through dust

above the sink,

or when a song

you haven't heard in years

stops your heart

with its echo.

Outside, the dragonflies

have already begun their work —

landing on yellow flowers,

lifting off,

landing again,

the same dance

they have been dancing

on this pond

since dinosaurs walked this place.

They do not know I am watching.

They do not know

I am trying to write this down

before it dissolves.

The wound and the wonder

come from the same place. I don't pretend to understand it.

Some mornings

all I can do

is sit in the stillness

and let the words come.

When they do,

they arrive faintly familiar:

the tremble of a candle

when someone opens a door,

the scent of pine in December,

smoke caught in wool,

the sound of your own name

spoken once

by someone

who is already gone.

The light is stronger now.

The coffee has grown lukewarm

in the mug that lists slightly to the left,

the one I will never replace.

I have loved this world

in its brokenness,

found holy things

in gutters and gravel

and the backs of forgotten drawers,

been shattered

and still managed to sing.

I tried to write the truth

in a way that wouldn't cut.

To tell it

without turning it

into a blade.

To leave something soft

on this kitchen windowsill

at dawn —

something you can hold

if everything else

turns to ash.