Write a poem of us,
Is all you asked this year.
No rosemary tea or lavender balm.
Just words to there from here.
Here to there's the problem.
We've all been kept at peace.
Our coughs are filled with worry.
We've made it here at least.
What shall I say this Christmas?
I missed you all the year?
That sounds like one Bing Crosby crooning in your ear.
Instead of getting creepy,
Let's talk about the space between each shard of frost laced on the window pane.
That space is what divides us,
At least within my soul.
So inconsequential.
It's hardly noticed at all.
For you the space is bigger,
From Burma to Berlin.
Dark and ever echoing.
A cavern you are in.
But space is always vast.
It stretches ever far,
But even down on Earth we see the billion stars.
Space does not equate.
With time and distance both.
For all throughout the year,
They haven't killed our hope.
I saw you once a slave when I was peachy white.
We played when we were young,
Before they dimmed the light.
I saw you once again within the river Nile.
We stood among the rushes.
I saw you turn and smile.
Then there was the winter,
Just slush.
There was no snow.
We were getting on the subway,
Smelling of wet wool.
The space between my frost,
It really isn't there.
Even when you're absent,
I feel you move the air.
And if I ever doubt,
On Christmas or in May,
That we will never meet,
That all has gone astray,
I'll get aboard the subway and smile at every race.
I'll stand inside a river,
A smile upon my face,
And when a winter comes again,
Maybe without snow,
I'll know,
Not far to go,
From here to the stars,
It's really not far.
We meet again.
