THE SHADOWS OF CHILDREN ON SWINGS

Their shadows have become entangled,
their limbs thrown flat against a broad wall
of sunlight, rising and rising, as if they were never
coming down again, as if flight and motion
were as essential as their own breath and blood,
these groaning knots of metal releasing them,
unharmed, into the open expanse of air.
They are tied, in this moment, only to the sky,
their bird-like bodies suddenly beyond our reach,
the chains holding them having become
ladders, lengthening ropes thrown into a future
unseen, but strong enough to hold them,
the shrieks of their laughter a language
of energy, easily understood between them.
Their shadows have become entangled,
their voices converging into one, demanding
only this day, this world, or nothing at all.

GHAZAL FOR MY BROTHER ON HIS FIFTY-NINTH BIRTHDAY

Even your photos now rush by, receding in a blur.

Only the young will tell you that life is long.

It's four below today, earth crunching underfoot;

your grave is everywhere, your memory long.

Do we measure time merely by its absence?

In winter we can see that our breath is not so long.

The forest reminds us that it's ok to be lost,

though there must be a reason we came along.

We'll never know the last time for anything.

I cross the room slowly, my daughter grows long.

If there is no time, there is none to be lost,

and love has been holding us all along.