Your journal of daily intention was veiled like wisteria
in a thin warm rain. It seems forever sometimes—
the Trail of Seven Bridges, pink tulle.
We posed en pointe on the stairs.
I wish I could have known how ordinary grace
–the patio garden, our peeled willow swing—
is circumstantial and measured as a saline drip.
Dance the sky with me, sister—did we forget?
Not behind me now, not alone.
You wrote the body teaches
that form is fate, that luck keeps count,
our dreams between us past.
Only now is ours, this gauze and shadow June,
how a lesion blooms an answer—
Lemon honey. A blue ceramic sun.
—
Diane Unterweger lives on the east shore of a small lake in Wisconsin. Her poems have appeared most recently in Gingerbread House, Not One of Us, and Naugatuck River Review.
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