A Novel Relationship

If I were a writer
maybe I could bring you here,
set you on this deck with me
and a sunset: watching bugs
fly on light beams shot through trees
or the gradual, then all-at-once
descent into true twilight.
Perhaps you’d feel the cool air,
the metal chair beneath you
and hear the birds, the highway,
someone’s dog barking; comment
on the light dripping upwards on trees.
Perhaps then I could explain
how it all connects to deep space,
sunsets and wormholes woven
in an endless quilt, or convince you
about the beauty of galaxies.
Or you’d teach me something,
and I’d murmur in amazement—
there is so much, I always find,
I simply do not know.
If I were a writer, I’d set it all down
and we’d be free to do other things,
this moment perfectly transfixed
for any rainy day, any convenient chair,
any cozy cup of tea, to turn a page
and step back into it. We’d always find it here,
a conversation with perfect understanding:
years on, I could saunter up
we’d still be there:
Have I told you about—
my, what a perfect evening!

April 2021