I wonder little about great mysteries
And tend to get sewn up in the stitching,
Fingering with care the delicate underthings –
Like silk threads slipping up and over sleeping breasts
moments catch each other – the breathtaking joy of
looking into my daughter’s newborn eyes – reminds me
how rain smells coming back to wet dry days –
and these happinesses get caught on each other
and weave me into life.
But if joys create delicate stalkings, soft lavender colored
chamois and rhinestoned lace garters
Then biting losses fix the outer garments of hard, resilient
woolen smocks tied from the backs of beasts,
Primitive, ancient necessity that wraps the fragile self
And covers the gentle, subtle longing beneath.