monday, february 24

it's been warm all day;
shirtsleeve weather, earlier,
walking to the store for lunch

outside now, it's cold and the air is heavy
with a possibility of snow
the clouds seem flat, low and tinged with
citylight, though it's some distance
to anything you could call a city
and really mean it

last night i drove down james canyon in the dark
along a shored-up patchwork of blacktop and rammed earth
that was a road before a river took it away one night

sometimes it goes like that
and then sometimes your life changes so slowly
that it seems impossible to
talk about a then and a now
a was and an is

until some subtle shift
casts the drift and arc and rubble
of intervening months and years
into sharp relief

there was a time before you, and you, and you
i didn't know it when we met
that the line would be so clear and sharp
but i know it now

there were days before these
and there will be others to come
the past is lit with raw urgency sometimes in my mind
like some fierce vision out of a novel
like the line in a song that catches you
and rings in your ears for weeks

but right now is singular too
these days are charmed, they are
full of pain and the looming smoke of
a burning world, they are shaking with an
uncurling wonder that may be
utterly forgotten in time-to-come

there will as like
be nothing like them
as long as we live.