The Wonder Years

the past and the future. seen in our eyes, stretched out on our faces, like the shadow of a bird crossing our path. our own shadows, second selves, at home in stillness, the oblique figures like the smallness of the hours, reminding you of the ground. you look. stare at the patterns of light and shade formed by wind and leaves. the mind clear at last, shining. the darkness of the night. words are burned in the fires.

you're too tired for dreams. the animal repose of breathing. this breath. wisp of life. the short and the long of it. the force of pen on paper, ink on the blank canvas,. your hand cocked at an angle, scrawls the words, "I hate you." when truth be told.

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From where did this rain in our lives come? How did red enter the world? And why so blue?

R's outstretched hand. Beautiful in the rain. Thought she could catch it. Flexed her fingers and thumb. Give me! Now! But it is only the curve of the hand that collects and re-collects. Sustains. To be human means forgetting. Breaking free from the angular. Means remembering. The circles. Even if broken.