I met you when I
owned the grass,
the bricks, the paths
we walked. I, me, and mine,
all. When I saw your
eyebrow raise, I frowned and
thought, “What a drag.”
Years spun nets,
suns and moons fled upon the backs of
the seasons: yellow, green, golden, white.
The world taught me
that It is all of us, that
we, together, are the world. A path
is simply tread by all;
a brick, a common pool.
The grass is God’s and God’s alone,
as is the sky, and time.
The young blaze brands:
I, me, my, mine. I see the world labeled,
shake my head and
feel - wiser, old, a brimming crone,
but new and wet and young, too,
moreso now than then.
I see your eyebrow wiggle now,
it is my tongue, I
mirror it
with an added twist
of wistful lips,
a heart filled
with the need to
be filled,
to claim nothing.
Somewhere in that
heartbeat, we
cross paths
again.
