Weathering changes
coming on in the blue-
black hills, fliskering
changes, flickering views.
And the hush, you see, that
holds us when we've left the
party to our friends.

Sometimes I know you can know
too much. Sometimes that what
you know can't be enough.
And the snow that falls, comes
down this morning, is too wet to
stay, too warm to stick.
The bird in the bush who's just
flown in, her upturned tail giving
her away. She must feel the cold,
a cold weather wren.

There is a certain kind of luck
like a feather you've found, or
like a dollar you dare not spend.
It's when you know you've known
what's best: that larger kind of
movement in desire. Even what's
second best, which is when a friend
stays to share the sometimes sad night.
But there are still those places you
never should have seen, and the broken
brows that snap you in two as easily as
if you are an alder limb. I wonder
if that first forest tree has ever felt
the shudder, been unsure of promises
come on the water warmed air. Will it
keep its word, come back to open up,
lift a low sky off his silver chin?

Well it's this side-view that shows
a lucky lover's third best station.
It's to never let on, never give over,
never bring your first self to the
wooden town of ambitious friends.
Just wait a little while, smile a
little more until you're home again.
Back behind the warm snow turned to
milk white mist suspended, covered.

2001 Terecone
(All Rights Reserved)
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