The city lights flicker, but they never fade.

I’m not saying I want them to. I happen to

have a fondness for streetlights and the

shadows they cast. There was a night last

spring when I could’ve sworn I predicted

the end of the world. It was really heartbreak.

I kept looking at the mountains in the distance

but the closest ones are hundreds of miles away

so I spent that whole season looking at the past

and I realized I may have been looking out the

rear-view the whole time. I was sick all through

summer and fall. It crept into winter’s roots

before the snow froze over and I had no choice

but to walk over the same ground many times

until there was a fracture and I realized I could

learn how to jimmy my way in to find the sap.

Maybe I was the sap the way Rumi described

how a drop is the ocean. Maybe I’m the tree,

not just the dirt, not just the crackled leaves

that get ground into a fine powder underfoot.

Maybe my limbs are stretching, not just the ones

I see, but the invisible tentacles that are consistently

striving to embody the light long enough to become

an object that glares and floods and shines. The

lesson is the wholeness.

I was going to mark the occasion with prayer

and solitude. I found my fingers sprawling

in ink. On all the pages, there were snapshots

of mountains. What can I say? Certain places

are pincers lodging themselves deep into

your palms until you realize it’s a trick

and all you’ve gotta do is lean in to loosen

the fabric long enough to blink and see

what is there.