Sweet Spots

Rain has fallen, I
am falling toward a soft
center with no name.

Between holding close
and setting free, we suffer,
we teeter, we dance.

When there are no points
left to make, there is only
one left.  Love, of course.

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Like Water

Lace tentacles curl
from a winter rooftop,
and gone tomorrow,
are you willing
to let everything go?

Will you be buoyant,
helium snow beneath
our skis that fly? Will
you be love? Will you
sink? Oh, to submerge

in the abundance
of water, to be wet with
the extravagance of it,
to stand under
an open sky, palms

upturned, as illusion
rains into vast rivers,
flows past your borders
to the sea. Are you
fluid enough to know

what you are
capable of?  Particles
of an exhale
on cold glass,
your fingers trace

the foggy window,
write your initials, your letters
of love, a fading mark
against the sky, see
finally, yourself.

Drop Off

Two boys
lean against

the brick wall
by the entrance

to the school.
He says,

Goodbye for now!

and runs to join them,
leans just like

they do,
boys,

observing
the opening

world. The yellow sun
flashes round

his ruffled
silhouette,

still flavored with
the sleep of morning –

and my eyes,
they cannot see

if he looks
little still,

or almost
grown.

We Like to Call it Love

My body
is breaking, slow
like a frozen

waterfall,
and it’s all right.
I feel it

in my knees,
like the cherry trees
which certainly

are growing,
and also
dying. They still

bloom pink
each spring,
dripping

their wet pollen
onto the noses
of bees. We 

were made
for a grand
coming together,

you and me
and the trees
and all the little things,

and also we
were made for
naught. And isn’t it

a sweet relief
that both
can be?