In the stories I return to, people love each other
indirectly. Offering coins, their moonlit
faces. Not receiving too much credit.
Like the man at work today who answered
“How are you?” with “Blessed.” I thought,
that’s not an answer to the question.
Afterward, I spent the day remembering:
I’m alive and breathing, drinking tea
with cinnamon. All day that was beautiful.
Later afternoon, the crew team spuming
wings of mist beyond me on the Mississippi,
each man’s stroke and strain of back
a promise to his boat-fellows, a steady line
to shore. Someone else can speak about
the heart of love. I’ll keep its faithful
offerings. Blooming sky this evening,
and footsteps at the door.
