Why…

The seats were metal then, cold even in summer. We didn’t need a push—we swung, pumped our legs until the sun seemed close enough to singe, until our lungs swelled fat with breath.

The ground beneath us could have killed, but didn’t—we pumped and swung until it disappeared, until the iron chains we clung to wore patterns in our palms.

Circles, lines, and flecks of rust. No adults in sight, it was the two of us, dodging cars in search of freedom, flight.

Those times are fragrant now, evoked by bugs unlike the ants at our feet, rising by the thousands. Ours was a hard world, buildings and noise, concrete and iron…

And honeysuckle, always honeysuckle, every spring.

This was us, petal and pistil, silk and sweet. This was us, between sharp edges and life.

And I do not wonder why I love you, thinking back—the daring in your spirit, the grooved and open heart of your smile.

Your willingness to face threats and fly into the sun.

I do not wonder why.

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Holes in the Theory

His rhythmic strikes,
and dawn’s harsh glare
arrive at once,
a shrill alarm.

Relentlessly,
he hammers,
plumbs,
exposing crumbs
of wood and grubs.

His point is clear:

how sharp of him
to make it so precisely,

at facade’s expense.

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Common Ground

The question is not being, if or to, but rather when and what or why and where and how.

If one does this instead of that, results may shift by threads, or swelling clouds of snow. But time, as lord of all, crafts here and now at whim.

And what of this is relevant? What is fluff, and what’s concrete?

A crack, a stone, a thought, a breath, the need to move, progress?

It seems the center’s gone beyond not holding to full collapse. But those corners remaining, can they sustain our weight without it?

Years ago, I saw a man on a corner far from mine. Because there was no ground between us, we got by on shallow waves, our certainties preserved by distance until one day a spot appeared no larger than a tender seed and we set our feet upon it. And from each common yes no maybe, it grew.

Soon it will be spring and time to plant. That, I think, is being; that, I think is when and what and why and where and urgently, mindfully how.

Yes.

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