yesod shebmalkhut
My love mows across the flowers and almost cannot. Some days, writing is neither where it starts nor where it ends. I know, God says. You think I could have done all this without dancing a little first? God, sometimes, I say, I imagine I’m dancing with you.
Me too, God says, except for this—neither of us is pretending, are we? We’re not a dream anymore, are we? And were we ever just that? I hug the new thrift store rocking chair close once more before letting go, think, a hold for that which holds
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