Grace.

There is a wildness lifelong in all our bones pushing for another shot of tequila,
the kiss with a stranger--while our partner looks the other way.
Some stay and always listen to the thrumming of the world.

They are the dreamers never present when the fire dies
and requires one more log in the hearth. Never there
to weed the herb garden--even with the fragrance of 
lavender, sage, and oregano to infuse the salt-sweat in the sun. 
Too busy listening to the four part harmony that looks out to the beyond
and said, yes, here be dragons. 
To some, the warm, wet kiss of strangers always wins over
 the worn familiar touch from a right hand with the scar from cutting apples
on the base of the thumb. Always valuing more the harsh bite of cheap courage-whiskey
rather than the comfort-stew left to burble on the left stove top in the old stained pot. 

It's never wrong to leave, just as it's never wrong to stay. 
But you can't eat stew and wish for whiskey. 
To some, you, me, we, we learn to constrain and dance gracefully with
gravity. Soon the four part harmony fades away. We learn to put away
the dreams of winged beasts. To let the stew 
murmur in the pot. Let the flowers blossom in orderly rows. 
To grow old with hands tracing time with lines of white,
​pink, and red a mark of passage. 

 


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