On a bench overlooking the river
longing brings me to the desired sensation
of a hand on my back,
a grandmother’s hand giving comfort and reassurance.
Looking at the sky
I imagine a grandfather and a grandmother in conversation.
They are consulting about what to do.
They are equal in presence and attitude and respect.
They are from a time and place where there is no difference
in value between them.
This I have never seen.
It is the kind of communion I need and feel the world needs.
They are communing over the river valley,
above the early spring tops of trees below me,
this valley’s blanket of dark grey lace over wool.
There is hope in the tips of some of the branches,
red, green, beginning.
and tree branch webs are communing
with the lungs of the world and all the people,
everything breathing in its element.
The grandmother and grandfather murmur in the sky,
on the banks of the river,
over the town.
As we breathe we can hear them with our bodies.
Rather than being overwhelmed by the number of writers writing their hearts out
I could join them in this hang gliding,
this trench digging,
this tree trimming.
Rather than be jealous, or fearful, which are the same thing, like fraternal twins,
I could pull together these years of punctuation like flotsam on the river in spring breakup:
Ice flows are temporary and edited by seasonal heat
and each other
and the lake at the mouth churning milky, milky brown.
This trimming happens at night, too,
when I dream of desperate lads stealing my hard drive
and wake up remembering I have an external back up.
Maybe the back up is the love of others for the punctuation and other signs of life.
Back up is remember.
Love does remember me.
My heart is climbing to my throat.
The green place in my throat where my voice purrs quietly waiting
is married to the green place in all the other throats.
The spring heat is present at night when it is still cold but not freezing.
I love those thieves who wake me up to what I forgot I had.