I’ve been thinking about how sheets rise and fall
on waves of wind, though have no wings or feathers.
I religiously hang clothes outside.
Even winter, when the air is dry and temperatures
are above freezing. It’s perfectly balanced and clean,
conserving energy—quite a lot over the years.
The bright white and colored motifs are like blossoms
ready to be picked before they fully open to release tethers
and stream away, as is time like a river.
We do the same, holding what happiness we can,
vacillating back and forth because life depends on it.
The road we take does not just lay down the miles—
our imagination is how we reach the world
across the distances.
The thoughts and gestures by which we are ourselves,
certainly. That’s the thing, perspicuity.
When our wings touch down on the next shore
the way we are… sky… sun… shadow… cloud.
This place feels like that.
Everything reaches skyward on precious waves,
there’s no turning back.
More and more it all seems related, finally.
And I in the gale steady myself a little while longer
Lest I forget myself, the way pain leads to happiness
by connecting, which is of course the true miracle,
before it frees itself, slips away.
Garden City Park