Image used by permission of Hope Finkelstein
The soil is weathered.
Not by sadness or scarcity,
although they have shown up recently.
It’s weathered from the beautiful and unavoidable reality of passing time,
waiting it out,
not just waiting it out
relishing, tasting, dancing, savoring it.
There are dark spots, and whiskers where they don’t belong
it’s always been said.
The protruding squares bear a resemblance to white
and they’re a bit crooked.
Sometimes the branches dangle
some would say sagging, but they are by no means defeated,
and saggy can’t begin to describe their beauty.
This fertile earth embodies reception.
Gentle and succulent
wise with a child’s wonder
in the infinite possibility of dreams.
For her, the sage is pungent with the bloom of faith,
the dendrites synthesize passageways which everyone else is too small to fill,
the colors fly with tangible wings that feed off disbelief and uncontrolled laughter.
The view is priceless
and the wind is hyperbolic and incomparably musical.
But the touch
the soft tenderness of belief
the effortless licks of dry lips and giggles.
I tie a knot at the end of the line.
If I travel back in time,
even I can’t untie it.