January 2001 / Volume Two / Issue One
Alice Cone
Simple as This

Icicles shift and unbuckle
from gutters; plums flourish;
moons redden; rains drench
rich humus, steam. Here,
it is all seasons.  Bells
chime all the hours;
trains surge out of town,
clank back–  unscheduled,
errant, on time. Here, I am
allegiant to the instant.
Now I do not chase after
apparition, try to grasp
each radiant glance.
Neither do I linger
long at the station,
lamenting inevitable
farewell. This is not
beginning or end,
but center,
unwavering, alive.

Once I would not have trusted
love as simple as this.
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