TWO LITTLE WORDS
Like a two-handled urn, each side a profile
facing out in opposite directions,
or strung together, not long enough
to tail a kite for lofting –
If only . . . .
A backward glance of rue and alas,
wistful, lingering like a last touch.
That the past
– all its mean words and closed hands –
could be undone, whisked away
with wand and wave.
Or forward on to hope, the future’s promise,
Emily’s thing with feathers.
conditional to be sure, pivot and hinge,
spun on a pinhead, a chasm to leap across.
But the condition met, fulfillment
is assured, lacking just one
– the only –
thing, a certain singularity,
easily granted. Three visiting angels
come walking, wings
folded flat to their backs.
Hurry, open the front gate.