The Cause-way

These ancient grasses reach

slick lines between us —

maybe it’s not good

enough this phosphorescent

kindness this contact with the extra-

ordinary. I hope

someday it suffices —

I’m listening: children’s boots

slide softly down the hexagons —

they’ll never know

it’s time to count the many sides

these stones, they sing

our names by heart — if

heart is solid landing

for our souls — I know

the stories now and then

I’ll write them over you

and make them ring

like ancient prayers

as if the shapes

always meant something

and the sides were multiple

with all the right edges