When you walk through the door frame, 
your shoulders bow under the weight of the world.
The boulders of obsidian on your back,
sharp and hurtful as shards of arrowheads,
slice deeply into your peace of mind. 
Your head always dips with the heaviest thoughts.

The first thing you do is ask how I have been,
and never with anything but the most genuine care:
not setting down your burden,
but shoving it to one side in concern. 

Sometimes the pain and anger you carry boils forth, 
in bitter words and sharpened tones, the knives of self defense,
but the moments that stay with me when you leave
are your simple acts of care.

Because of you, I have a crystal that sits beside my writing,
reflecting the light of divine inspiration,
and reminding me of unselfish compassion.
Because of you, I have a brown owl named Ozymandias,
sitting beside my keyboard and reminding me to be still and wise. 

It was once said that any
who create on earth a heaven
find the strength to within their own hell.
I believe that now,
because I have heard you speak of baby crows,
and beloved dogs held so close
their paws are imprinted on your arms in ink.

You remind me with every visit
that the most wonderful roses are found,
and shed a scent that perfumes the air around
with colors that brighten the world,
only where the thorns grow.

Thank you, P—.