In early spring, we sat on a south facing
bench above the water and the topic was
veils, what they may keep and then
reveal of promises and mysteries.
They were everywhere, suggesting
kaleidoscopic arrays of faces around us,
spreading themselves wide like arms
to the histories we’d lost,
collapsed inside the buds
of new expressions, blooming,
and they were in the water, too,
rippling after fish jumps, after
the stones we threw like hopeful
singers in the night, at bedroom
windows, begging them to hear
and wake before our eyes, to open
the windows and show themselves again.
