Like some Sunday afternoon, my years emerge—
a car ride through the country then the city then back,
the maple trees, flax fields, rivers: a distance
but so close that memories are puffs of air on my closed eyes
and so it goes, and so I go like everyone
existing in small rooms, waiting.
Listen, there is the lifting of self
of awareness God-high, or is it moving ever inward
to the soft places? And outward to the ocean? Or the real gift—
the way the birds come just close enough but not exactly to
your outstretched hand, and simply wait
for you to drop the bread.
There’s waiting, and there’s distance.
There’s the self opening like ribbon unfurling
to the slanted horizon,
to the room full of light,
to that word—we won’t talk about it—
love, such generous and dangerous depth.
Front page image by Les Chatfield.