You’ve been in my kitchen this year,
though you may not know it.
Your voices nourish my blood
as the sun slips beneath the earth,
all peachy and delicious and achingly
distant. You are here, even though
Your faces laugh and sweeten
my days, reconstructed across time and space
by technology I can’t begin to understand.
Can you feel me, billowing towards you,
a little threadbare sometimes, stretched
from coast to coast and pole to pole,
May this poem be a quilt, wrapping you
in the honey-gold light of my Tennessee kitchen,
with blue vases on the windowsill,
and African violets still in bloom.
The sun’s coming up over the mountains,
a rim of red, like sleepless eyes.
I’m tired of tangling with words,
so I’ll say it plain: thank you
for keeping me company,
for being & being you.