Change

Many of my poems deal with change—particularly my own need to change, to become who I am supposed to be.

Here’s another love poem, written years ago. In fact, written while driving home after we spent a weekend backpacking. That whole drive, from his place to my own, I was composing these lines, and—except for an initial stop sign—I never once paused the car, through city streets, the freeway on-ramp, exiting on the other side of town, arriving home—nonstop, every light was green.

That’s the rare magic of being so completely in the moment. 

My days are too full
to guard you in yonder high tower.
	You are free to change,
	to move about at will.

My hands are too busy
to bind you in stone’s cold keeping.
	Each time we meet is new,
	your skin so smooth, so warm.

My love is too warm
to freeze you in memory’s glass coffin.
	You are free to change.
	And I am just as free.

My heart knows so much, I fear to listen,
to be as free as that.
	I want something unchanging.
	Yet nothing is immutable.

Only nothing is immutable.

10/12/1989

Some garden news—

The spinach planted on January 14th is sprouting!