You are alone now, where before you were deprived of others,
and the difference more than completes you as you wait
for another spilling over, in no hurry,
waiting for you to reach the end of your offer,
as if you had yet to realize where you were going, and
you’re right, I think, suddenly falling into that hole,
the one I thought I was holding open for you.
There’s not much here, but sometimes it sputters out a moment
so odd and amazing all the nothing in between gets swallowed in it.
You take the weeds away with meticulous attention,
as if there could be no question about what replaces them.
Bright and heavy as pocket change, you’re the return
on life’s investment, a promise of attention unto aging details,
all the way to the meadow that holds both play and restraint,
its clouds sponging clean the ceremonially passing sky.