It's funny to think how,

Paul,

after having been blinded

on the road to Damascus

sat to pen down letters

not in Aramaic

but Greek.

It's funny to think how

St. Augustine

later wrote his

Confessions

in Latin

 the language

of those who 

crucified his

Savior.

It's funny to think how

The Learn'd Astronomer

of which Whitman wrote

perhaps was handed

terms and letters

from Copernicus

who sat in a court and

Inquisition

in front of men

borrowing words from

Paul.

First there were cave paintings

then hieroglyphics

and runes

and then the sonnet

and the novel

and letters

on the Pony Express

and, my dear,

while our methods

and languages

may have changed

and thoughts find

new ways

to spin themselves

into words

The note

you left me

on the night stand

surpasses the majesty

of any iambic pentameter.

Words, in themselves,

have no special magic

if I wrote your name

on the place

over my heart,

It would do nothing

to change

my physical aspect.

It would do nothing

to change my fate.

It would do nothing

to stop my hair from greying

or my eyes from getting dull.

It would do nothing

to stop the faces of

my grandchildren

from looking the same

as the woman

who sat next to me

on the bus yesterday.

It would not change

what we already know

and have yet to accept.

But to know

that I have Your name

penned

on the place over my heart

gives me the strength

to laugh at grey snow melt

on the side of the road.

And the men

who think themselves brave

calling names from

balcony windows.

Words

in themselves

contain no magic.

Aren't we all

just borrowing

the same letters

from Paul

and St. Augustine

and Whitman

and Copernicus?

But in between

printed lines

and spaces between letters

and the margins

of the page:

Memories live.

And with them

Hope.

Words

contain no magic, yes

only the magic we give them

only the magic we allow them to have

And, my dear,

your name alone

has given me

my fair share of enchantment.

For if we dried our tears

for long enough to believe

(even for a moment)

that our words had more

magic than dandelion fluff

and all of the uncounted dreams

that you placed in the care of stars,

Maybe if we believed in the power

of all that we said

we could yell across the void

that creates the gap

between reality

and where we'd like to be.

Maybe if we began to believe

in Saviors like Paul

or Redemption like Augustine

or universes beyond our own,

Maybe if we believed that Your name

and my love poems tucked in the mail

 could work spells

and enough magic

to keep us from growing old

that's maybe all they'd need

to do it.