Poem: Gifts

Gifts
Kirk Wil­son

I kept my life in a small room
with pale blue walls
and brought it back
lit­tle presents from the world

This is for you I would say
This is for you

Some­times the gifts
died in my hands
and often I could not pay
the price of their redemption

I could nev­er be sure
they were appre­ci­at­ed or how much
they want­ed to be in the place
where I had brought them

The room filled with less and less
space to breathe so instead of gifts
I began to bring stories
that did not end but slipped away
around cor­ners and over horizons

I brought premonitions
and resis­tance to clo­sure and left
at the end of each day
look­ing for more