Some of us understood

when we turned it over

and became more

intimate with what

the day had in store;

 

we learned

it is less interesting

to know than wonder.

So we closed the drape

with its bindweed pattern

 

and let the sun run

through its lines

until the pattern

became rehearsed, dry,

old fashioned as meter and rhyme.

 

We found so many of our

questions could be handled

this way, not answered or

laid to rest, but packed away

unsoiled by what we could not say.

 

Still, there was something we

wanted to ask each other and

it required us to hold hands

look over the edge, with eyes

wide, put our faith on the ledge

 

and walk, like A Man on Wire,

into the air where the only

question that matters is

how far do we fall before

letting go?

 

The sun, with all its spots,

keeps setting the tempo.

A beat that brings dancers

to their knees as they wait,

vibrating like holograms in

 

waves of heat. But you and

I have been through that

long slow dance of fate,

come out the other side

of time’s capriciousness

 

where the measure of

days, nights, hours,…

is as regular as the tide,

to find our dance can only

be finished in a dream.