Interventions

A swallowtail waits out a hard rain
on the sill. The neighbor’s dog barks
three times then stops. We pray for signs,
as if gathering them might make it possible
to walk an outcome back from the edge
of imminence or fulfillment. A doctor calls
with news. A child breaks a long silence
so we can finally exhale a long-held breath.
Mostly, we endure from one turning to another—
fire to flood, ripening to rot. Wind pushes heavy
clouds from west to east. How does one influence
a mind that no one can fully enter? How long
have I waited like this for the one on the other
side to open the door and walk through it? Lights
are on in the all-night convenience store and gas
station on the corner. The stars, too, remain lit. As if,
seen or unseen, being there is a kind of intervention.