Call whatever between us a near vocation, part

approximate, part devotion, & the rest accumulated
in these years we’ve sometimes thought to name

time & measure in increment: weather, fleeting sky
& seasons that shift & spill over & rarely pass with

-out notice. Or call it all the ways love keeps its own
kind of hourglass—clock, little book of days, names

& then gives up that naming—a near invocation, maybe,
deep time, geologic, strata & stratification. Or invoke

dendrochronology, whatever this is not unlike rings
in trees we sometimes think count, those rings that

don’t replicate years or the content of, but know &
then let go even as the tree-dating holds on. Or evoke

metaphor, tree & also part of—its own knowing,
& how it remembers itself in time without word.

 

 

 

 

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