For Rhiannon

“What selves? What’s left?”

In pairs we resist return.
We arrive
in pieces, parts, in search
of. Irreplaceable, reparable.

A parable:
Amid gentle slopes a familiar home,
unmossed by memory.
Feet bared, we breathe; forget to hold ourselves
and feel whole.

The door
into a joinery of evening rain.
We begin with words.
Reach for love
to offer friendship.
Pieces to parts.

The stones smile softly;
we arrive once more.
A story: We reach for more
and offer everything.
Each language is enough when clarified
with silence.

We were, we are, we will be again.
We move. Rain fades into scent.
In pairs we lose the war
on recognition,
to nests.

Our doors crack open
to compositions of rest.

A reason:
We are, we are, we are.

Irreparably happy.



Note: The quote is from The Real Thing by Tom Stoppard.

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