You don’t mind if I sit here awhile
and just rest my eyes,
my head,
my heart
a little,
do you?
It’s just that
in the grand scheme of things,
you seem like a strong oak
on which to rest my back,
and I thought I might
put my toes into
the same river that feeds your roots.
Perhaps you will show me
how to be gracious in the rain,
grateful to the sun,
and let go of my
fleeting,
beautiful moments,
all of them small and fragile,
dried lace,
the color of fire,
caught in the river,
or the wind
— wherever, it hardly matters —
to be carried from me,
ever onward,
disappearing
as all things do.
