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Tara Mesalik MacMahon
Sometimes the Only Passage is to Glide
on the thin air of grace. A gauzed sky,
spiritus, atman, pneuma, ruah?—
or the hours, minutes, gossamer of rain.
How quickly our forms might disquiet themselves.
Go on, tip the hourglass, smooth a pebble or peach.
And click a moon, any invisible one.
If fortunate, you’ll flip some clouds, fat-cool
against your flaming cheeks. After all,
what could blossom inside a thick red vest?
Let us speak to each other
in the language of children—wing, dip, soar.
And whirl with the lake, our weary-resplendent selves.
When you whistle, your old red sneakers race home.
Mountain, mountain, those times we scaled wood.