Trigger Point

A dragonfly dances, airborne only for a summer,
life not measured in rain, or the bruises of kisses.

Dip your toes at the edges of the pool,
water seeps into your bones and waits there,

to flower in your footsteps, whichever way
you choose to go.

Existence is a geometry of greetings
and goodbyes, of lost and found, a place beyond

absences, which are implied but never certain.
Stand on the road by the edge of the trees,

under fuzzy street lights and the hear the soil
singing you to disappear, the reoccur, later,

back between the sheets; beneath your tongue
the taste of the greenwood. How many ways

are there to come home? Stop moving, wait,
until the leaves turn gold, and life begins again,

ghost written, only moments away
from disappearing, not found or lost,

but emerging, without a shadow on a white
trackway, somewhere in-between