I am. I was. I will be. I am all. I am nothing. I create a barrier and view it and so I have space. More barriers and space is more defined. It becomes a playing field. More barriers, and there are pieces on the field. I make the pieces move and there is time. I am both sides of the game. This is good. But—when I know both sides—no game. To have one, I must remove myself from half. Can I know first how it might end? A WHERE this has been played…?

I make it so. A blue green sphere moves into my space. I see it is old in its continuum. I look. The surface is resplendent with forms. I will copy one and look from within…

I sit on a bench under a roof at the end of an open hallway. To my left is an area filled with playground equipment for climbing, sliding and hanging. Children are doing all these things, laughing and chattering. An occasional, enthusiastic scream splits the air. Mothers and nannies sit around the edges, some chatting, others watching kids. The sun is bright, the sky a clear blue. It’s spring so the grass is new and fragrant green. To my right is a swing set. The swing seats are enclosed for very small children. A little boy is being given desultory pushes by his mother, who is talking on her phone. He fixes an intense look on me. I raise a hand to him, he smiles and wriggles in the seat.

The air is hot and I’m sweating, but an intermittent breeze cools me. I smell the dust and sand in the sandbox. The swing’s chain is creaking as the mother pushes. I stand and start walking.

This is a small park in a neighborhood. In a few paces, I’m on the sidewalk, moving past fences and gardens. There is a sound, coming from a window. It’s rising, rising, rising—joy! I stand on the sidewalk, enveloped. I feel it within this form, like stardust or sun photons. A woman comes out the front door and pauses on the porch. She sees me and smiles. “What is this?” I ask her.

“Beethoven, Ode to Joy,” she replies. She is indulgent of my ignorance.

“Yes,” I say.

She looks at me a moment, wondering. Then she turns a goes back into the house. I stand, fixed, until the sound ends. I have been filled up by it and made more beautiful. I walk on, looking at all that is around me.

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There has to be a place.
A plain cabinet, so high,
oft painted and chipping
with white ceramic pulls for
its simple drawer and door,
where I can put
the word skeins I spin while
I’m driving
or drifting toward sleep.
A place they can huddle in safety,
where the hurricane of husband,
the deluge of daughters,
and the whirlwind of work
can’t snatch them asunder
and render them ordinary again.
I will make such a place
so my skeins may be kept
until, in a spare second,
I can pull them out and
weave them as I had envisioned
when I was driving
or drifting toward sleep.

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