The wind orates poems.
Rooms sing with secrets.
Puddles return escaped moonlight.
Stars dissolve,
and where they go
I have no inkling.
I am perhaps a throwback,
a wildling.
When I grow up,
I will be wise, I said.
But the circumference of the sky
grew faster than I could.
There was no answer,
to anything I asked.
The world filled my hands
with agates, ice, rain, tears,
wings and spiders.
That’s all I have, it seemed to say,
except you,
and mysteries involving black holes
and outer space,
and children shaped
out of an energy called joy.