horizon

change is blazing, everywhere 
and we are steadying our fears about how close its wreckage will land 
to the delicate bodies of those we love most 
the delicate bodies of those who have already been hurt most 

today you and me lay in hammocks, 1000 miles apart, gulping the fresh
quell of quiet pouring towards each other through the right angles of our
screens

I ask my godson, who's 3, as he settles in your lap, if he wants to see the
trees in my yard and then twirl a slow circle stopping at each wooded
lighthouse of tenacious living surrounding me 

his tiny miraculous black body is melting into sleep on your soft chest
your sweet bellies ballooning in unison, purring the ancient rhythm of
parent and child 

he is nestled home in your cocooning arms as they fight to feel enough
promise to protect him above the clamor of knowing you can’t always

a long day of reality is tightening inside our abdomens, we both reach
deep in our pockets and gently hand each other all the soothing sounds
we can gather into sentences 

we lean on every lesson we’ve been given of melting hard facts into tools
of dreaming, sharp enough to slice small portals of faith through a dizzying
fog

every time we pause our steady calling ourselves back from each rattling
tug at our attention, my godson raises his precious crown and announces
"I want to see the trees"