The Maynard
Spring 2018

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Against All Odds

we’ve shared twelve-thousand days and more
weathered ice-storms,    power failures,    several
cats,    re-negotiated mortgages and joy
            love’s fierce trajectories —
equal parts laughter,    sadness,    subtle alchemies

lately,    I’ve been dreaming grassy pools
moist sand,    birds    the colours of crushed coral —
fragile,    thin-boned,    soft —
            perhaps a snowy egret,    plovers
or sand pipers    rumpled white —    no sense

of why —    they seemed deliberate
induced perhaps by cinnamon,    lemon,    or stevia
shaken well —    three sprays
under  the tongue —    the murmur of nuns
            poems,    promises and paths

while all I ask    are breath and you —    to find my
way through fog and wilderness —    a stone
            to walk on water,    lightly