Wednesday, February 16
FORSYTHIAS
I think about time. The forsythias and the man singing in the car ahead of me. When I enter the space the same shape he made a moment before me, where is the music, the taste of honey in his mouth and now mine, the thought of kissing his wife good-bye and the words of a song lifting off my tongue as if from memory, but his? What is mine stays with me, my heart in the glitter of his heart. My dreams have no bones. Love is never saved in layers of rock. So much of me will never be found on this earth. (C. L. O'Dell)