What an odd boy, they used to say of me.
They’re still saying it.
But I’m a writer, my dear, and not right in the head.
That’s all it is. But I do know how to
take my time and listen,
sitting under the willow tree in the spring as the birds
bring me happy messages from God.
I will take my time with other important things, too,
so lay your curves of water here beside me.
If this pleases you,
You may pay me back with your
gift of second sight,
and tell me where my true nature hides,
where my pain
my illusions fester.
I will love you all the more for it.
These are gifts we give, freely
and they bind us in profound ways
because they reveal.
But even this is temporary.
We control neither each other
nor our fate,
and we must
keep our noses into the wind.
For the moment, we watch the
jetstream shove the clouds
across a sky without jets, and sense that
all the frenzy and acquisitiveness has paused
People see the color of the sky, they
realize the stars are there, even at noon, and inhale
the sounds of birds and the pleasures of silence.
Tomorrow will come if the sun rises.