Share
 
I was talking to a friend,
inside the plentitude of the library,
and she said to me,
“We are suspicious of everyone;
we want to know what it is
they want from us.”
I thought of the image
of blood from a stone,
set in the heart of the very soul,
and I said to her,
“Only what you can give.”
But she looked at me, 
and I saw her try to put forth her rickety,
untrodden bridge.
“We don’t know what it is we have to give.”
I was thinking of hopelessness,
as large as the black hole,
how heavy it must be
when attached to the soul,
so I said, “It is the essence of yourself,
your deep, fleeting dreams,
your hopes, your cares...
Share them with me.”
“Share?  What is that?”
And she started with a story,
of how no one is allowed
that
close.
She talked about her fear, 
the falling of her heart
and the trampling of it.
“This,”I said smiling, “is how you start.”

© Coleen T. Houlihan