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.
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.
Fog hangs low
on a mountain road.
We don’t even
pretend to see
what lies ahead,
and the secret
of where
we’re going
is all the better for it.
Expectations melt
to quiet nothing like white
snowflakes on blossoms.
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.
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?
Leave all of your should’s
and supposed to’s, and settle
into noticing.
