When I told you goodbye it felt like I had just slammed all my fingers in a door,
cracked every one of those tiny little bones
so they dangled from my hand like wind chimes.
Years later another door closes behind me,
and walking along this familiar trail I’m soothed by a soft rain
cool and dripping from the most colorless sky I have ever seen.
In the still corners of a pond stagnant water breeds blood suckers;
mosquitoes with a six hour life span spend their time chewing away at me.
Exploding out of dark soil, new growth cries for the sun and the clouds promise “later”
but green is impatient and leaves stretch and settle in today’s shade.
I’ve said more hellos than goodbyes since I’ve been alive
but my heart is heavy with the frequency of leaving.
I could stay one place forever
but I have more than six hours to kill and more to do than chew on someone.
In spite of sore fingers I know that love exists
as an exception to the rule of impermanence,
regardless of the clouds in the sky
the green in the trees
and the number of steps I have walked in the number of days I’ve been away.
Life is only nature disguised as yous and mes,
and nature is only love with seasons.