In the folds of each day
someone waits to enter your life,
to appear in person or in a dream
and change you slightly—
as if a pencil sketch were being drawn
of you, and a line extended or erased
increases your vitality, your presence in the world.
Be ready for the entrance of a stranger
or a friend who, after an exchange, lingers
in the form of words, a look, a gesture,
new filaments joining your own,
They’ve cloaked themselves
looking more and more
like the Fates,
their lucky sisters sitting calmly
spinning, measuring, snipping with shears
those foolish mortals’ wasted lives.
They are tired now,
and sobered by the way
things have gone.
Spring comes and goes
without much notice
and the zephyrs have too often
missed their cue.
Huddled and still,
they recall their dance
circling the centuries,
the scent of the blossoming world,
but they cannot retrieve the music,
its harmonies lost to thunder and storm.
The readiness, the will
The heartbeat, the flutter
The stretch, the unfolding
The lift, the spreading
The weightlessness, the current
The wind, the light
The rain, the moon
The expanse, the unknown
The soar, the glide
The watchfulness, the ache
The circle, the mark
The imagining, the yearning.
Sculptures by Ron Pederson.