The past is a foreign country.
They do things differently there.

Those things are there,
We are here.

We do things differently
Presently, see.

Two lives fusing
      as one
Intertwined
“Ieo vos tien foi tenes le moy,”-
“I hold your faith, hold mine.”

You, magical creature
Who has power to
Draw a heart from chests
Hold it in tiny hands
Never to return it

A simple concrete step, a stoop; it is just a step, a stoop
Until it is associated with memories of sitting, watching,
                             and waiting.

Watching life as it parades past; neighbors, strangers, cars,
things that are blown about.

All become associated with that well-worn act, repeated with
                           religious devotion,

Of spending time on a simple neighborhood stoop.

Mortal beings like caulk
Flaking with time and use;
Like artists blowing away dust,
Dusting away brief accumulations -
These moral beings. Transactional movements.

On a Sunday, the world stands still and silent;
No traffic sounds reverberate from the distant freeway;
No people milling around the parking lot.

On a Sunday, you can breathe, and hear the birds sing.
No lawns are being manicured, that happens on Saturday.
Sundays are lazy, laid-back, laconic affairs.

If you want to fly give up

Everything that weighs you down.
Otherwise, you will remain on the ground.

It’s not about how high you fly
But how long you can stay in the sky.

Try

And, even if you fall and cry
At least you had flown.