Here
Here in the meeting of life and to attend it
Every waking hour, all misery is behind us unlit;
Even future sadness will sink into future past bowed.
Here in the now, we’re scarred, safe, and sound,
To read, to write, to turn on the tongue,
A private happening shared as one―
A bittersweet cadence of the poetry of our choice
Yes, choice. If that isn’t freedom to our voice,
Try walking on one leg. Freedom is balancing by right,
Between choices to move forward into the twilight
Full of dreams; not with the wonder of a ghost,
Or searching for a word in a word and rewrote
From a fill of cunning words that don’t condense
Into any image; but the hope of dawn in sure steps―
(Sometimes stumbling, sometimes falling scared,
And coming up empty or with only a prayer.)
The intangible made into a leaping delight,
The music and the instrument alike,
The covenant between time and seasons’ acts,
Intersecting at change and less at chance.
