Dare we count
the minutes separating real arcs of joy
as they happen
or do we need something
tangible – a totem? –
to convey the memory of light
before we give way to night?

The subtle shadows
didn’t register
as he glanced beyond
small shoes, loping gaits,
and purple hat ladies,
almost seeing
the miracle of flight
but for an extended blink.

I dreamt I had a cello
between my knees,
a low thrumming
beneath my fingers,
rolling through my spine.

The song was of trembling touch
on a dark-winged night.
I played by waning moon,
words slipping
from a soft place inside.

He picked up the phone,
heard the whir of windmills
and wondered about errors of track-lighting
and truth of photosynthesis.
He thought how his mother would chide him
if she knew of his penchant
for burst neon and fresh balloons.

The painted girl sat across the room,
perched on a three-legged stool,
stiletto-feet swinging.
She heard him murmur about blue
and hoped he’d read her eyes,
filling the space
with his purposeful whimsy.

From tangoing alone
to laughing at their growing energy,
their mismatched buttons
and skipped belt loops
became less important
than the exuberance
they thought they left behind.