Sounds swirl: a blackbird bringing food to babies, a truck lumbering up a low grade, two dogs in dispute, the wind through a crevice in my collar. This is life looping, expanding into space, then furling back to the beginning.
If it were not for the beginning, if all were just a pulsing fountain, no poems would be necessary… but they are.
You make poetry every day, desperate connections of words: hellos, goodbyes, pledges of never and forever, looping, swirling sounds that appear and disappear with no more hope than dew in the desert.
But you are the dew, you are the desert. You are these two opposites, in the same moment, furled into one.