Space opens up
. as a flock of crows traces
. . the upper bound of our immediate
surroundings, and the lower
. margin of the sky: black marks
. . delineating not only themselves but
the blue against which
. we see them: last night
. . you swore with the pain
your body was inflicting
. on you and what
. . could I do but listen
and stroke your hand
. lightly: some day
. . that gesture will be everything
as I remember you held
. your grandfather’s hand while he lay
. . in his hospital bed, or as I held
my aunt’s hand, reminding
. her of who I was. I walked
. . that day with my cousin
and he surprised me
. with his knowledge of birds
. . how sparrows might catch insects
by following a lawnmower
. snapping up what jumps out
. . or was mangled by its passing:
We reach a point where
. we take what comes without further planning
. . and one simply continues, for now,
with the sensation of being
. perfectly contiguous with oneself and one’s
. . encompassing medium ,
suspended
. as in air
. . or in water.
D. F. Tweney is a California writer of haiku, short poetry, and prose, whose work has been published in Tinywords, Modern Haiku, Frogpond, and American Tanka.
