The Widening Road
All winter the road has been paved in rain,
holding its form as if it made its own direction.
We have a lot of these days. Or not.
A woman in a car staring out, her hands going numb.
When did the world begin to push us so quickly?
A blue jay flies low over her into the madrones.
She can still see it, its bright movements rocking a branch
surely delighted that it matches the sky.
The honest clouds.
A trembling tenderness grows like a fluttering in her hand.
She wants to hold it in her arms, but not pin it down,
the way the tree holds the jay generously in its
willful branches. The spring wind is blowing
through her—pulling the dead debris free from her limbs.
She cannot decide what she desires, but today it is enough
that she desires and desires and desires. That she is a body
in the world, wanting, the wind itself becoming
her own wild whisper.