Soft

Walking
among the hard and careless
without mentioning what I see
makes me soft.  There are
buddies, friends, and acquaintances
who do not see how things connect.
Can’t read between lines, can’t see
or hear the trembling in voices
afraid to be anything but soft.

Soft —
I long to remain in bed
all day, melt into the covers
and only think and speak
in cotton and down.  To be
legitimately soft and caring,
to slide into the pillows
comfortably with no desire
to rise; how can I remain so
when the world is hard
on the soft? 

Morning is the time
for the diamond tongue
that scratches truth into
the bathroom mirror.
I want to see those words
across my face.  Always
a reminder that hard
is necessary if soft
is to follow, and that soft
cannot be enjoyed
without knowing hard.