immersion

Sometimes you have to blend in or disappear,
glaze over, hide, be silent, be unremarkable, lose
the way, feel impotent, forget the point, get dirty,
trip over your tongue, overestimate your power, underestimate
your exhaustion, fall behind, not know the language,
break your stride, stub your ego,
come panting in in last place.

This morning, I couldn't help myself.
I saw the Atlantic and just leapt in.

To my left, a god slid through the waves
like a seal. To my right, a ballerina
pirouetted around ropes of seaweed.
In front and behind, a cache of children,
giddy with sun, bobbed through a line of foam,
their innocence intact.

Flapping my arms in saltwater,
I was neither the picture of achievement
nor grace.

But no one was watching.
They were all too busy
swimming.

eternity

Of course, we haven’t been promised a thing,
not forever or next year or even tomorrow.
This moment, this half of a half of a second,
is the only thing we can ever truly call
ours.

It’s not that I don’t want
the sun’s full capacity, or the waterfall at it’s boldest roar,
or a forest of birdsong and deer prints,
or the ripest apple from the season’s first harvest.
One could always imagine a lighter, fresher version of here,
dream a little wider, fashion more art from the long,
grey sidewalk.

But this is what happens when I allow time
to slither by instead of muscling it forward:
The peanuts on the flight to Miami, lunch.
The serpentine line at the bank, rest. A crowded bar,
heat and kinship. Your kiss,
one lucky eternity.

clover

It grew, without intervention, in the front yard,
despite the less-than-fertile soil, despite the first
unexpectedly arid weeks of autumn, despite the garden’s
dangerous proximity to a litter-strewn street,
despite dog droppings and sticky sap, despite
telephone wires and a carpet of fallen foliage left
to rot and disappear into obsolescence.

And yet, unaided, unwatched, untended,
the clover insisted, answering this spectacular neglect
with a steady, steely patience, waiting
for a rare rain or the fickle generosity
of a stranger emptying the last inches from an old water bottle.

So now, November, and an anachronism of spring
has sprung. What was barren has entered into the thick
of an immaculate conception. Something fleshy is on the verge,
sprouting its bright green wings.

I don’t know how long you will stay close,
warming my skin with yours, breathing into me
your moist and swirling air.
But I am certain that even this brief oxygen
will be enough.

this day opens

I don't think it is possible
to want too much.
The morning isn't even here
but already my heart is racing.

We can't always make sense
of what we yearn for, but the act of yearning
is what keeps everything alive.
Even the silence of 2 a.m. is full of promise.

This day opens like a poem
waiting to be written.