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.

WHERENESS

 

I had never considered it that way --

the simple state of being in a particular time

and place -- until you let the word fall,

suspended between us, both strange and familiar.

Where else could one be?, I wondered.

You loved words that way, trying out the new,

settling on favorite phrases, turning them,

chewing on their shapes and sounds, following

their threads wherever they might lead.

Now, all those years having gone wherever

the years go, I can only be grateful that

my whereness and yours found each other,

however briefly, breathed the same air,

shared the same silences, laughed at the same

absurdities you couldn't help but challenge.

You demanded much but expected little,

your lack of faith in others a religion unto itself,

yet never questioning where we belonged,

and never doubting that we would live forever.