Cobblestone Poem by Matthew Zeller

Ask me in, this moment
at your door as you fumble keys.
I held the umbrella shielding
all of you, part of me,
stood on cobblestone steps,
showed you I will be vulnerable,
and I am not afraid.

Ask me in, this moment
from cobblestone steps
upon which I have already fallen,
always leading to you and away.
I know every crack, every nook,
the number of paces to raised sidewalk,
roots underneath,
the names of men who laid brick at your feet
so you might float above them.

Look in your eyes, raindrops
stream brownstone, tempered, clear;
grains of sand once washed away by tears
only to return refined. They
collect the man that I am
this moment, tonight,
tears of my own, returned, refined, unafraid.

Ask me, this moment,
into your heart, your life.
I will reside as you reside;
strong but imperfect as cobblestone steps,
gentle as evening rain,
flawed but enduring as root-raised sidewalk,
warm as sun kissed sand.
Refined, always returning
to a place you call home.