Does life advance like a novel?
A story with beginning and end?
Hellos and farewells?
But I know that is not so.
Life looks one way and another.
It’s what flies overhead,
stops at a curb, flirts,
or calls from a distance.
It’s why I sing, become afraid, cry.
It’s because life happens and I find it.
It’s because life is beautiful and disappears.
It’s because life breaks
and I can’t put it together again.
It’s because I find love and it finds me.
If this were a story I would not read it.
If this were a story its logic would elude me.
But, if it is a poem, I would recite it.
If it is a poem I would search for words
to describe it.
If it is a poem I would want someone
to laugh with me and say beautiful things,
make love and quarrel,
and never say no if they want to tell me
why they are alive,
and want to kiss me before they leave.