Following the Footsteps
I want to know how they did it. I want the thick unraveling,
the music decaying at the end of the song, the frayed end, the fringe.
I want what the bird mouths, perched on the thinnest possible
twig, one oak leaf defiant at the end of nearly nothing. How,
no better than me, they went so much farther, found a way
in. I have nothing but a collection of false
starts, so many true. Am susceptible beyond measure. Yet measure
is the vital nutrient, and i will have my own.
The hummingbird commands its courses of air.
Small but insistent, it chases down the hours
as if it owned them all, not an instant’s
hesitation. How many years will i dream of being loved.
The trees waste no time on that. And now i want
music again, not to resist beauty, but sink my teeth in.
To walk out on a hot evening, knowing i too
can trace highways in the wind.