They’re all so safe
The safe ones
In my age and yearning
I cleave to trusting
Why not, anyway?
It’s exhausting, otherwise.
It means, I know, that the
Fringes and dressings of the circle
Get smaller,
Defining the warp and weave
Design and pattern
Of my life
Whereby the task was always,
Unfolding, whether I would ever
See it or not,
To live the best way I’m
Wired, clinging to honesty
Admitting love and its mystery
In the ground that seasons shift
In the tactile of my time.
