You’re a little girl
inside a fuzzy poncho
feeling snug and aware
of dust motes and how quiet it is
when you’re waiting for the day to end.

Then you’re in a car at lunchtime
with the sun shining on your face
and you see the lines, the age,
the disappointments; you’re suddenly old,
struggling to hold onto anything hopeful.

There are people to save
but you can’t do a damn thing.
There are places to go
but you’re stuck in time.
There are people to love
but you’re invisible.

Stepping into the day,
painstakingly taking note of beauty
despite a pebble in your shoe,
relearning how small you are
when everyone tunes out your voice.

I almost missed the moon tonight
and really only gave it a passing glance,
time leaking away again
the way it does
when I am in the world of my own making, where I dwell mostly privately,
though there is room for you.

There are scarcely adequate words
to describe this heaven where I know
we can be brutal and beautiful,
seeing the spark and hearing the words
we make without judgment
or even making sense.

When she sings,
it is sometimes a pale blue song
with a lilt of the south
from her youth revisited
in the northern treetops,
all tied up in an emotion
something like the fading ripple
of a pond, happy to be moved,
content to be still again.
Knowing snow is coming
and facing a warm sun
just before it slips away,
she reaches for him
with no worry, no hurry,
and a heart full.