Folded Things

So often I have bared my soul
and spread its wealth around me
relishing its golden hue.
So often there were poems, paintings, music
that flowed in one stream
that held messages that only I could hear.
But I would take them and
fold them into something I hoped others
would also hear.
So often the folded thing
would resonate in solitude
yet escape the touch of another.
So often I would look to you
and hope that you would see and hear
what I have seen and heard.
But the message would waver
and disappear like smoke ascending into air.
So often I have wondered
why there is no one to share these folded things;
as if only I could understand
their solitude.
As if only I could feel their heartbeat
beneath the emptiness in which they sleep.

If all of these are summed
and divided by love
you would know them as your own children.
You would see them as they are.
Yet they are mysteries viewed
as mere elements of time.
So often I have taken these folded things
and left them behind
for others to unfold and wear.
And when I look back
at their clothing they appear like stars
against the persistent blackness.
Like comets dancing to the forbidden music
of another world.
Calling so softly... when it is heard,
the folded things unfold their beauty
and nothing is forbidden again.