A willowy bend of arm and a heron's hand of grace brushes the loose curl from her cheek. This woman knows the steps in front of me. We listen for the beginning in each other's voice, and yet, we hover around permission to sink. How carefully the threads are chosen; how immediately woven. The feminine Now finds me in her story. So goes the benevolence of our meeting. Remember my first Twenty Sentences? Surely you cringed. Yet daily I wrote, finding streams and birdsong and eternity undone. You would have argued infinite worth and I kept muttering, “but how?”
hawks gazing at the strong and withered alike
The teacher becomes dandelion seed – wishes turned to life renewed in the next. Sentence. No more old letters to love. No more last kisses to claim. Now wins.
So the pastures open, to new teachers with old horse blankets. Or old teachers with new reins. Either way, we've met. And now I know how close it all is.