The Kite
My grandson found a kite in the back of a closet.
On the first day of spring,
a cold front
whipped the wind through boughs
and scattered the contents
of overflowing recycling bins.
This is what it means to be in the now;
release a kite to the wind,
feel the tug of a string,
his small face turns up,
all fascination to the sky.
What is happiness, what is the now?
Two spaces
later, we’re already (the) past.
We are, and we are, and then we are
a murky were. We were
unable to resurrect
bits caught in the tree line.
* * * * *
The Unlikeliness of Empty Spaces
The body cannot
sift
memory
into sachets.
One morning I woke to a dove
cooing in the tree outside my window.
One morning I touched
my forehead
to the ground.
How old, the desire
to be held
like a desert
flower on the side of
a knotted stem.
Yesterday, I was
a crowd.
This morning, I woke
to the applause
of a bed.
The desire to be
held, long
after the last drop
has left the flesh.
Water runs where it can.