Submission Fifteen

the gift of non-invisibility

I have a friend who constantly
finds herself in a position
to nurse the wounds inflicted
by time upon the living soul.
she does not do this without frailty
and wonders why the sky cries
continually into her fractured cup.
it is her gift, I say.

as for mine, what good is
the soul of un-read verse?
how does a heart that bleeds
invisible ink bring about healing?
time is my gift, each dawn
a pretty wrapping, I say,
as i scribble my name
into the colors of the sunrise,
without apology or timidity,
because I (have to) believe

that somewhere, someone
is waiting for my poem;
somewhere, there’s
a reader who needs
to hear what I need to write;
someone who can decipher
my pain, my joy, where I cannot,
and take it into the folds of her abrasions,
using my blood and tears to heal her.

in, this way, giving of the self,
no one is invisible;
it is all I have to give.

By Dawn DiBartolo, CA