We are pushing sixty.
Like snails, when we bloom
out of ourselves to spy
the garden through our blindness
we are dancing slowly,
alert to the flaming
intentions of the stars.
Well, I like to think it.
Imagine it is April.
High above the wet,
forgiving earth, the puddles,
geese stick out their slender
necks for everyone—
you can almost hear them
honking, loose belts on an angine
that turns anyway.