(from June 2024)
It was a dialogue of potentials
of what we might be able to make
transform,
grow, from seed, from thin air.
You asked if I wanted to go back to our most wild space
tall stringy weeds, the remains of a gutted rosebush, vines trimmed back and coiled like spaghetti on tines.
You asked if I could see, not what was there but what it’s becoming might look like
at just this angle, you said.
in just this light, you said.
You used the vision as a distraction, my eyes to the southwest
to the future.
One knee on the grass,
on the clover,
in the weeds.
One question stripped of any ornament,
bare-bones language,
a pure inquiry.
And yet still there was a thickness to it,
the levels on which it was a question of
desire and intention and devotion and fierceness of imagination.
At dusk, the second longest of the year,
warm glow emanating from the windows of home, you asked me of a potential
of a promise.
And the dim light of twilight, stretched like taffy, still caught on the ring
a white-gold glint.
The shimmer of a promise of a vow that floats out beyond us,
snaking its way through time with
always and always and always
as its gentle hiss
it’s refrain.