This has something to do with the tap tap tap of an early morning dream,
with traffic rushing by and people who talk too much,
with jet exhaust and red-tailed hawks.
This has something to do with plum blossoms every February.
And then hard rain.

Something to do with the curve of future plans, 
with Esalen, Constantinople, Positano, and the French Riviera,
with trips that may never be made and hope gone awry,
with fires, full lunar eclipses,
and sudden gusts of wind 
blowing down fifty-year-old elms,
with nests falling out of trees.

This has something to do with swimming 
all the way to the raft,
and lying on hot wood with silty water drying on your skin,
a hand flung over your eyes to keep out the sun,

something to do with wars and babies, 
with uterine cancer 
and a nice calm game of draw poker.
Something to do with birthdays, 
And friends, and just-missed trains.

With cedar and spring bamboo,
with the shades of green and yellow in a sun-struck cornfield,
with the gaze directed at the horizon 
and balance, with moss 
between stones, with blue between patches of clouds, 
and the moment between inhale and exhale.

Something to do with how he died that beautiful June,
and with how improbable it was that I met you		
because of a broken hinge on a broken door
now the door to our bedroom
made lovely by your hands.