the voices of the young
We’re walking, self-absorbed; three kids
play home-grown softball on the street.
–Hello, boy and girl– and we smile and wonder;
how much longer can we pass for young,
where we made cautious, anxious steps
toward each other’s hearts? Love burned new,
bright, and disturbing as insomnia,
and we climbed its rugged mountain unroped.
Stark hills and sunlit city streets rolled us
to a fine cigar; we glow, fragrantly,
given enough breath. Tenderness, aching bones
and fickle passion persist to remind us
that tamed, tilled soil may cover a
sacred fragile land. Droughts of longing
foreshadow fertile rains; absence
and anticipation both still can terrify.
In the cool sea breeze we hold gloved hands,
and walk in step like we used to.
A softball voice says, or asks, –Nice people–
I offer a quiet reply: –I think so–.