Sitting
in sunlight
falling
through
any
number
of windows,
I follow you
backwards
through time,
like tracks
in snow.
*
Dreams collect
by the window,
encouraged
by the fire
popping late.
*
We are rescued
by little more
than a touch.
That touch
of course
is everything.
We embroider it
the rest
of our lives.
*
Doing
hidden
work
with a few
well-known
ants,
finding the sun
again
by traces
in warm grass.
*
Stems
vibrate.
The grass
works for pennies.
*
We
wait
in
cool
air
measuring,
measured--
time's
lost
voices
beginning
a prayer
we
alone
continue.
*
Any true
prayer
is a kind of crying.
We wait,
intimating
death--
each
in
our own
dialect.
*
We
wait
for
the
light
to
come
on.
*
We
love
lit
candles--
the way
a candle
waves
goodbye.
We light
a candle
and work
by its
light.
Time,
we know,
is never
enough.
*
May you
always
have a
house full
of
candles.
May you
always
have
each candle
lit.
*
May we sing
in
other
words.
May the wind
take
our
name.
*
May we
scratch
the surface
before we turn
- blind -
and go.
