There is a space that fits
no exact dimensions and only lasts
as long as the breaths taken
between endearments and curiosities.
I like that space, where it is quiet
and just for us, when a whole world
condenses to what fits inside our hands.
From the same river
His mountain moves very slowly;
he notices changes in light
and imagines it’s their dancing
that’s caused the shift
He tells her all the things
she never knew she needed
to hear but wanted to believe-
and flowers bloomed in snow
They were drawn from the same
river with unquiet waters
and it took autumn trees
to tear open their story anew.
The dance, the pie, the treeline.
The row of oaks in front of the firs.
A place to start.
Bare limbs enfolded in wintergreen.
The timing is always off.
She found her second chance, again,
in a string of dances but it didn’t match
his resolve which was like an acorn
fifty years on.
She even watched other women
but they seemed know
how to separate pie from fiction.
But she kept at it, month after month,
toiling away in place, barely blinking.
A dream framed in evergreen.
There were days the pie was perfect.
But others when she forgot the steps.
Sometimes, she just enjoyed the dance.
This place is part of my history but what speaks to me now are cracks in the ice, shifts in the riverbank, and tired stark beauty of the trees.
I don’t hear ghosts as much anymore, which is a relief. A lot of painful wounds have grafted closed, leaving rough ridges to step lightly over.
I see my reflection in the stately swollen winter river and I’m not sure what it means, probably just that I’m still looking down too often.
It’s just that I tend to trip over my own feet so much, looking up is a real act of bravery for me. I’m not particularly brave, just curious and eager and ready for the season to change.
The Word Rummager 