June 16, 2017 § Leave a comment
Two is such a tiny number,
innocent of creases made when seasons
fold back against themselves.
But here we are,
all done with One
and from this angle, Two is huge,
packed full of Anything,
and looming like a great, pale fog–
no path and no horizon.
What else is there to do
but warm it with our breath
and mold it into guileless moments,
childish pictures of us
sowing seeds on sunny afternoons.
We can finish mourning withered cotyledons
and marvel as the things we planted become
long walks in the hills,
a flower, or a song sung well enough.
And we can jerry-rig some
quirky towers to milk clouds,
and dance by seaside fires
while we’re jostled down to vapor
by the friction of good friends.
And we can sleep