You Are Here

by James Crews

I don’t think we do enough bowing

to the simple things, the humble acts,

like sweeping dust and hair from the stairs

or wiping down the windows so I have

a clear view of that slim crimson strip 

of the redwing blackbird, first sign

of spring I could kneel and kiss. I bow

to the box of my mother’s ashes, the way

grief stays evergreen yet still changes,

losing its needles and shedding limbs,

bending in wind I think will destroy me.

And I bow to the blue post-it note stuck

to my bedroom door, which says: You have

already arrived, you are here, the words

slowing the locomotive of my runaway 

heart and mind each time I read them.

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Reprinted with permission. Visit James Crews’ website here.