The belief.

The belief.


When I was younger
I had the belief
that there would be 
one who I will love
and one who 
I know loves me—
almost that love 
is a fixed place.

And yes, there can be walks in 
the April woods that
feel full of infinity—every leaf a universe
and the thawing stream a bounty. 

The unspoken amazement at 
a crush of trout lilies,
pushing their way up through
last year’s leaves.

The imagining of this path
as seen from above—
two people on their way through 
the woods, as if it’s the cosmos.

With atoms visible and all 
ideas entertained—the sheerness
of it all—so immediate 
and available. 

But this love between you two
is not a place. It floats
just above as you pass by
the maidenhair fern.

Growing, living, and dying, 
in spite of 
the belief.


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