Invitation

I wonder if the word ever wearies

Of making meaning

Or if the sentence

Tires of parading across the page —

Asking the same question,

Again and again,

Of the reader who, tired themselves,

Reaches for the same book,

Year after year.

And I wonder what grief turned the author

Away from the world

To do the dark work of discovery,

Alone — patiently

Rubbing words together, hoping

For one spark

To say,

Come in, rest awhile.

And I wonder, who are you,

Returning again,

With your sack of black sorrows

And an outstretched candle, looking

For a word of comfort,

Of light.