gather

gloomy moss

from your fists

array a wreath of longing

from whatever’s left

of woodsy wandering

leave a memory

of what’s never been

let us germinate

Before he flew away,

I asked about love and death,

since that’s all we are-

such simple animals

–

It didn’t seem odd to us,

a woman and a bird

conversing about such things;

we know of flight and loss

–

He said I was silly

to even ask;

whatever answer he’d manage

wouldn’t be enough

–

He gave me allegories

about boxes and tethers,

saying the trick is to find rest

inside the tender trap

Space on a shelf, in a box,

a place to place things to keep

but never look at

for fear of facing the truth

of a dream of a memory

that didn’t exist

except in pieces of art in books

in libraries in museums.

Time to think, on a trail,

overgrown maybe or very old

but still clear enough to follow

like the little-girl visions

that led from linoleum to moss

without skipping a beat

of the feet of the breathing

keeping pace with sun –

which seems invincible, like us.

Hurt that boomerangs over years

or months or years again

as boomerangs do as people who hurt do

as we take it like it’s communion

with the lowest of the low feeders,

forgetting Darwin and Moses

for a moment, forgetting their sameness

but never letting go a fistful

of broken pieces of our spirit.

Belief in a something larger that includes

us without borders without bodies

with light with dark with pages of

heartbeats spelled out as science as art

as polished wood and painted fabric

as a humming from the woods from

deeper places that we set aside

inside where secrets can be free.

There were mountains.

Some green.

Lots of rock.

It was twilight much of the time

except when sun spanked the horizon.

My ancestors noticed these things

only as it pertained to goat schedules

and meal preparation.

Few of us have looked up or dared

to imagine something more.

It doesn’t matter.

There is no more than mountains and

green and rock and dinner.