Held

“What is possible now, after all this time?” *

You can’t figure out how to let it in. Do you open the door? Stand in the doorway? Wait for someone who looks right and beckon her (or him) in? But you have done this before—this beckoning on the basis of what ‘looks right,’ and this has only led you to what is impossible. So what is the vision of possibility? Oh, there is no vision. It defies an image. It defies being held to a form. I think I see. Well, I don’t mean ‘I see’ literally.  What I mean is I feel you. I feel you. Touch is what is possible. It can begin with a hand moving up the length of your spine. Or it can begin an open palm placed between your shoulder blades. Or it can be the gentle grip of the shoulder. Or it can begin with a hand that ties the hood of your poncho to keep you dry in the rain. And because of this hand that has helped to keep you dry, you can wander into that Sunday morning jazz tent to listen to that falsetto singing that morning song, and you can feel as if the Earth is a Heaven. Or a haven. It really doesn’t matter. What matters is that it is possible—this celestial hand reaching for you, keeping you dry, after all this time in the rain.

* another gentle interrogation from Ms. B.