Our sixth sense is made out of words.
Once I believed in eternal life
but the birds singing in the cherry trees
outside my window convinced me I was a fool.
On our war dead:
They measure how grateful we are
for the chance to learn the error of our ways.
On the elegy:
A gift left wrapped forever, ungiven.
On an old riddle:
The shape of what emerges has changed,
but the shape of the egg remains.
When my son was just old enough to talk he’d sometimes say to me, “I want something,” unable to tell me what it was. Or he’d ask me, “Daddy, where should we be?”
On the years behind me:
The trail a snail leaves on a leaf;
it looks like it’s unrolling itself.
A maze, a labyrinth of feelings, the beauty in confusion.