Maybe in a field of clover, up to my shins
Maybe
Crouching down under the weight of the sun
to see how many four-leaf heads winked at me
Maybe coming out of the
cool of an ice cream shop
back into the warmth of the night air
to eat our cones before they melted
Maybe
Maybe in just another linen shirt or dress
Maybe the way the air moved through them
so that I could carry on to make it in time
for another brilliant sunset
Maybe a low country boil
Juices dripping down chins and shirts
Maybe by the river
Maybe with a baby strapped to my chest,
Maybe we might sleep tonight,
or, before that,
Maybe the baby will come today
Maybe that’s where I made sense of time
Maybe it wasn’t easy but
it was logical
What about this is logical?
What about the fire of lead
piercing the night air is logical?
What is logical about boys, who belong laughing
on bikes or basketball courts,
wielding the weapon of fear?
What about betraying a brother
or selling a daughter is logical?
What is logical about fractures inside God’s people that reverberate into the past and future,
about saying goodbye when you’ve just
learned to say hello?
What is logical about death?
Or darkness?
But then again, what is logical about
a daffodil shoot bursting forth
from the dead earth, reaching for the
bone chilling rain,
so it can, in a matter of days, stand
delicate, radiant, confident
and laugh at winter as it leaves?