October 21, 2014

a marriage

Even the woman who cuts us off at the parking lot.
Even the rubbernecker who turns the highway sluggish.
Even the skunk who contaminates the neighborhood,
and the geese who leave their droppings on the path.
Even the heartache that keeps us hibernating all winter. Even
the letters that say "No thanks" and "We've chosen someone else."
Even the story about loneliness, and the one about loss. Even the year
good news rarely comes, and the shadows look endless. 
How we still keep our gaze on the mess. How we marry whatever we've missed.
How we still tilt our faces toward sunlight and wait - how we wait - to be kissed.