LET ME TELL YOU WHO I AM

LET ME TELL YOU WHO I AM

 In the howling that is bees ushering twilight out
and the blackness that is night in across the sky,
I am every dying star appearing diamond-like
and each planet aligning with our own.
I'll be the blush along the horizon announcing
dawn as Sol's coin slides up, glowing
and the warmth you feel when your kitten
purrs, good morning beside you in your bed.

I am the instinct in your feet as they hit the
floor an instant before your baby calls for
you to come and get him.
The gasp you utter in the night when the phone
rings and your heart stops beating
for the few seconds it takes you to answer it.

I am all the dotted lines upon which you will ever
be asked to sign your name —
for good reasons, and those not so great—.
And the blue envelopes in your mailbox bringing
letters from overseas, even in these days
of emails and Facebook
I am the thick white and yellow pages you used
to find in big cities, and still can, if you look hard
enough, containing the names and numbers
of everyone, you will ever need to contact.

In the days that feel dwindling towards the end
of your life, I will be the sound of solace
you desire.
The master of ceremonies, the person in charge
of the view-master, the reels; I'll unspool whatever
memories you are keen to review.
Before you take your final bow—I live, then die,
to serve you.