Each moment is a drink of water,
a green ball bouncing down
the gravel road, a quandary as simple
as kindness, the idea of more stars.
There’s nothing to fear
but the snapping of branches in the wind.
To live as a split infinitive is a sign of courage,
a matter of style. Nothing is absolute.
To live now, half-formed,
circling like a sharp-eyed hawk
is to accept an unnamed infinity
and a sense of chronic dislocation.
We are pages in a book of promises,
lies that come true, wishes that don’t,
dawns that arrive, nights that fall.
Give me your time. I’ll give you mine.
After the danger of frost has passed
we’ll plant tomatoes and roses and basil
and go through the motions of poetry.
As the meaning soaks in we will succumb
to the vast and friendly fires of the sun.
Short visits with an honest God 