Our desks hold the relics of
pens, pencils, and loose change.
Upon this wood
the fruit of thoughtful minds
and work of studious hands
is offered like
the incense of academia;
pipe smoke rising in rings
to meet you out there,
in hopes that your grace
might come down like the dewfall
upon my meager scribbles and
transubstantiate them into an essay,
or a thesis, or in this case a poem,
whose totality and vitality
might nourish and burn
you who read it.
From this humble sacrifice of
spilled ink and shared thoughts,
Let communion grow
between the words on these pages
and those humming in the volumes
on our bookcases and shelves.
Let communion grow between
all those murmuring words,
be they in books or in minds
committed to ink or
still lingering in thought.
Let love grow between ideas
and those who love them
and know that in this moment,
when these sounds were on a tongue,
when a poem was greeted by your ears
when your imagination tried
to give these thoughts shape
that indeed
some communion happened.
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