by Marissa Bell Toffoli.
Field of infinite whispers.
Supple blades of pale sage,
the color of cat eyes.
How they widen / wink
in sunlight. It’s not always clear
what is real. The past is ever
present / now slips out from under us.
Day at the shore, look out
for the horizon. Memory traces
a collapsing trail through sand.
Sat down to speak of what?
Instead, a photo. No one in it.
No background, no slip of stream
edges the shot. Only lush, long grass.
/////////////////////////////
The texture of time. All wisps
swayed aside by wind we didn’t feel.
Wanted to leave the plank-board path / fall
into those waiting arms.
Close my eyes / give myself over
to something that need be
nothing more.
A simple comfort.