Samn Stockwell

Dear rain like background music in a bad restaurant
and dear flood of buds on the trees. 
Dear life in which I imagine
my belly as proof of the goodwill of the fates,
dear the cost of embracing another side dish of a season,
of meandering and waiting at each swollen stream—
the debris carried so rapidly, the breathless mud
bunched with ice at the side of the road. 

I join the crowds outside the movies—
movies where a singing and dancing couple
proclaim their true love, even when.

Dear you of constant sorrow, clipping branches,
stirring the clear water in a vase—
dear grieving that is never quiet,
dear you falling and studying
the architecture of lost ground.
If you face your fears,
they don’t turn to jelly, they’re stronger
weather than that.

Dear lackluster abbreviation
of what I wanted to say, seizure
of emptiness under the pear
tree. I look at sparse grass
and black roots, and
slip off my sneakers
to hear you better, my jeans
torn and faded, swiveling
like a heron on one leg
in that forward, forward
skate in glassy water.