Telling
He told her she was so lovely.
No sooner had this honesty left his
lips than a mob gathered grabbing
hammers and nails to crucify.
Tell her she’s smart.
Tell her she’s strong.
Tell her she’s brave.
Tell her anything but she’s lovely.
He outran them, this time, and
found a park bench hidden in a
pocket of pines and scrub oak protected
by the voices of a thousand birds.
He told the pines and the scrub oak and
the birds they were so lovely for that is
what his only eyes told him was true.
And their happiness seemed transparent.
So well loved– thank you for your courage. It matters. You matter.
Lovely is the best word. The best. No nail or shouts, here, John-boy. You, too, are lovely. Thank you.