Love is not fate,
nor some duration of frivolous months or years.
It is molecules flung wide,
astral breaches that birth light and our knowing.
We see an owl in a lone cypress,
its tonal voice like air in a ventilator,
a soft whoosh of meaning and yet melodic
as a string of warm, summer days.
There is amber grass
wrapped tight around the nearby pond and all its affairs.
When a child grabs his mother’s hand
he does so without a hint of dawdling.
He is bound by some recessed dread,
the notion that she might sneak away.
Then, an invocation and a wedding,
the passing of a man from one woman to another,
when he must learn how one naked form
can be so transformed as if emerged from cocoon.
There is a white blanket
cast aside to reveal a pocket of warm comfort.
We breathe still air
as long as our wanderings do not cease.
These are durable moments
that require our steep attention.
I see a body in a lone bed,
its breaths like owl voice in the dead of night,
and the body transformed
as if already shrouded in white blanket.
I touch this, my mother’s heart,
one last beat for this important earthly juncture,
and am awed by my time among these wondrous shapes.