You shift your weight
from one foot to the other,
feeling for the balance
between self and other,
between static and supple,
between busy and the beginning
of the Sabbath.
As a kid, you avoided being grounded.
Now it’s your imperative
to find support beneath
strong legs, torso, shoulders,
a heavy head playing with lightness
like the kaleidoscope plays with light,
each tiny tile or piece of glass
affecting the others,
each ounce of your weight
informing how your whole body moves,
the way the day itself expands and contracts,
The line of the lake
a triangular rooftop pokes
a horizontal tin frame,
cylindrical chimney, wooden post,
one rugged beam crossing another.
Love–its form elusive,
ungraspable as the air
we breathe, molecules we can’t perceive
that fill our bodies,
give and end life–
for all its shape-shifting, persists.
Shift, and your rigid stance
comes shaking loose,
or you find yourself standing ground
where you used to swallow intuition,
some new source of light
of a kaleidoscopic heart.