Yes
Yes, all things of water and our days rounded with light, yes,
on that small island with its one
mountain we would climb toward traces of snow, or walk down toward the ocean, yes,
and that we found shells from long ago buried in the snow tells us that our
dream is real, and that in sleep we still feel Pangaea pulling apart within our bodies,
their quaking when we touch one another and the snow melts in spring, polishing
the green, as we remember our decision not to have children, and how sometimes that makes
our paintings and words more moving, especially in high summer
when the deer turn ruddy in their sleek coats and call from the high meadow,
for it is then that we discover new yellows and change nouns to verbs
while bees swarm the dogwoods, and in our age, we forget our
age, and that forgetfulness is our redemption for living.
