traces

Trace the reclining arm back to its strong shy author,

give bulbs and beetroot to stickball kids with mitts
who sit to catch their breath on the little stoop,

tell no one of your sadness or your glory
for time rolls sure and slow over each
and every morning,

then when the lunar breeze blows inward
from the canyon,
feed friend and foe together at the long birch table,

the final feast is placed in bowls and brimful platters,
and if the rain is lucky, we’ll forever be there smiling,
lapping up gladness in brown gravy like Thanksgiving turkey,

our noses lips and smooth foreheads dripping,
sopped aglow in pooled delicious-ness,

outside the window a waterfall
aroar and pouring
lasting past our many doubts,
they're all wet

our now is fine and real
and over stones
so flowing

this music babbles
onward as
unclipped
wildness.