Gravity
Even clouds look different, somehow more
and less willow-fur gray
like the wolf who crossed the still night road
in July, ruff thick and lit
by the stunned gaze of headlights. That
freeze frame ministration now slips
between fingers
like wind-whipped water vapor, as ursine
as neap tide
as tender as feather fall. What is memory
but a longing
met
or unmet
a tideline left to follow
or forget. Always
the will-o’-the-wisps we carry
lead on, shaping every track
for the familiar sea to claim. Why is it
each time,
we’re surprised? With the moon
gravity tugs
at every cell. Wolf sings
of it, a force falling as ripples
like a stone with wings
or a cloud
in my sea’s
animal heart. Perhaps we aren’t meant to grasp
the dance of light we remember
but to gather what longs
to become it.