The Proof

You can knock and walk through the door.
My laptop will be playing soothing music.
You can play the angel on the floor
as children play angels on the snow.
You are free to come and free to go.
You have nothing to prove to me.
You needn’t surge with eloquence or art.
Do you have demons? Maybe so.
But they’re an intrusion, not a part
of you. When you see my window’s glow,
when winter and twilight are too much,
let the smell of cooking be the delicate touch
that invites you inside,
and nothing need be explained, justified.
You’ll receive no judgement from me.
I’m not enamored of your education,
your degrees, your personal history.
A few words may suffice; silence may contain
more insight than a nightly summer sky.
Is God an illusion? Is God a lie?
No matter. We must be the proof, you and I.

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