I Want to Tell You Everything by Hy Boltz

I want to tell you

everything,

little things like

the countertop where we sat together

is made from chalk boards out of the original Whitefish school built in 1910,

or that the mint that grows along the creek, with rose hips, makes the best tea,

and how the smell of that tea staying warm on the wood stove

is a treasure from my childhood.

I want to tell you about the red gelding named Champ, I had when I was five

that my parents traded for the mandolin I still play.

As if by telling you,

you will have been there for more of my life, !

like I could bring you with me to when I walked barefoot

through the meadow in Nutrioso if I could just tell you

exactly how the grass felt on my feet.

And I want you to take me with you

on weekend trips to the farm, to climb the ladder to the mezzanine

passing through to your grandparents room,

landing on their bed, for a moment

you could fly!

Raindrops on the skylight while stories were being told.

Or even to the time your step-father

painted your room black because he knew how much you loved

bright, happy colors, then sent you to your room for a year.

And I could bring you steam rising from loaves of bread

up turned on the counter, freshly out of their pans.

You could show me the slow fall of snow

through the branches of ancient spruce.

The rhythmic sway of tall grass in September wind.