Almost at the end of the line, or the beginning: that place past
the middle. Then soon, there’s no one between you and the inevitable.
So I took a trip to the post office to fill out a passport form, and when
I was ready, the clerk said Look at the camera as if at the inevitable.
Those tracks in the snow: what animal made them? Moonlight falls
between the slats on the deck. The cold is the answer, inevitable.
I want to say I’ve learned some things about tenderness: how tight knots
in the chest open one by one, skeptical that habit might take over. Inevitable.
But not all is lost, not all is by any means a return to square one.
We weep and dream, we laugh even as we travel toward the inevitable.
Look out the window where flurries scatter upward like ashes: the wind gusts,
and it’s almost as if their descent is forestalled from the inevitable.
In response to Via Negativa: Walking the line.