Cowboy Boots

A heat wave stumbles onto the island, wakes blinking on a Monday morning, seemingly as confused as the rest of us, commuters mingling in sun dresses and winter coats on the uptown express train. Little beads of sweat form at the small of my back as I navigate the early morning rush. My body feels like lead, feels like the remains of a marathon, my head swims with all the things I don't yet understand and in poetry we are all perpetually children: this is a gift.

He calls from sunshine, from wide open spaces and palm trees, I do not realize until later that I breathe better at the sight. Stow the information away for when I can make sense of it, distract myself looking for other tickets, it never fails. I read a few words this morning, I read another season, another life, how strange that we are made of all these moments and never singular. How extraordinary that when we truly love it is all the pieces and not just the ones that look good on paper. I ran my fingers over the burst blooms of a magnolia this morning, smiling, and I would not have loved the soft pink petals as much if I had not also seen the tree barren, if I had not also felt the heart in my chest sink from its absence.

We are our entireties.

This is a gift.