Past

Someday I could explain all the roundness
   of every dawn and evening
when it quits by the glade, among the reeds
   and we are knee deep in water.
Then I could tell you that all my worry
   is past me, leaves on glass
and the sky close to purple in uncertain light,
   cloud banks etched on the horizon,
where our words are clear and carry close enough
   to hear the bend between ache and joy
without whispering, the banter of old souls
   on a corner of the world becalmed,
when our thoughts spoken slow because
   they are delicious, delicate cobwebs
sagging with raindrops or dew
   that tug on silk impossibly strong
and I will tell you that my worries are past
   in the roundness of all that.

p.m.