With the ingenuity of morning,
gold from the flannel of hours, of paws
padding down paths, small tongues
lapping from forest green ponds,
flower to flower activity by bees and dewfall
a known answer to the questions
in dreams is possible. Escape, no.
What we used to take for granted.
When the pink cheek of sunset slips
into the blue of dusk and white hot stars
clinch the deal, we get it.
It all goes together. What was not said
as well as what needs to be said.
He looks, she looks, squinting to understand
the light that has made its way in,
moon almost full like when you say ooh look
the moon is full tonight. Someone says
no, not quite. As if a night or two before
or after makes a difference. It did.
Everything counts for something.
Owls’ hoot, dry leaves underfoot, a whistle
for the dog, a song learned in school, bravery
the sky in early evening, any sky.