Some days I am tired of talk of struggle.
Of the effort it takes, on top of the struggle itself.
Is it really harder to choose, rather, to talk about the minute
clarities etched in the space just between and around my hands?
Long ago, a woman turned my hand over in hers and looked
at the lines etched on the side of my palm.
With a fingernail she traced the life-line
and its many shallow branches down the middle.
Time is a river, we say. Or time is a trail that leads
to that one faraway passage shining like a light in the hills.
And here I will touch the beautiful
splintering wood on the surface of an old table.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.