The Space Between Two Objects

Outside the window, a branch rests on the invisible pillow of gravity, buffeted by the winds of change. Upon the branch, pink bowties, ... waiting ...

A tree cannot read a watch.

A watch cannot read a tree.

Yet both tell time.

The daffodil blooms in the yard have shriveled into parchment-thin ghosts of their glorious past, glory only a concept in my thoughts but "past" clearly a word in a daffodil's vocabulary.

The daffodils now know their next steps to follow, nourishing offspring, unless I follow expert gardener tips to cut off the seedpods.

Not I.

Thus, daffodils spread across the yard each year, unaware of my disuse of lawnmowing gear, happy in both our lives to let be.

You are here with me. We see us not in each other's eyes. The space between two objects defining us, instead.

Reality is more than we can bear. Words were never necessary.

You are the walk I take in the woods, the redbud I see outside the window, the space between these words.

I am not a gambler. Thus, poetry is not my strong suit. I alight upon alliteration like the airy goldfinches fluttering twixt the birdseeder posts.

Rhyming's not my thing.

When these black scribblings become more important than the two objects they describe, then let me be the mourning dove and the robin sharing a branch outside my window.