Eventually everything leaves its name behind,
on the roads, in the towns, in the fallen leaves. Eventually,
we admit our failure, if only
because we want to see ourselves clearly as we are.
A splash of sun rolls up the hill
followed by a splash of shade
then sun again,
the very earth moved by its shadows. And we find
what reaches out to us
waits for us; the caress of a voice,
water quivering under a mooring. Everything
happening so quickly
and taking so long. And that’s our luck—beauty a wave
about to burst and drench
what hides and disguises us,
as we experience, closer, clolser,
on the long road, the little things: love, death.
~ from In Cannon Cave (Brick Books, 1997)
