gift

a blank page.

an open frame.

a meaningless sentence.

a empty gesture.

a bad poem.

what is there to give

that you would truly

love

to receive?

outside ice crystals

are forming on the windshields of cars.

if only these words

could fall upon this page

so lightly…

if images,

like falling snow,

could gently shift and jostle

your most private memories,

remind you…

there is so much

we share

so less

to give and to receive

than to acknowledge

and to cherish.

how much we cherish

you.

hearts wander.

sometimes going astray

is the only way

home.

you are always welcome

home

in our home.

echoes, shadows and reflections

are all these lines can hold.

the gift lies beyond, between,

among us,

waiting to be unwrapped.

Joshua Putnam

Winter Solstice, 2005