Things That Seem Impossible

[71degrees]

Hearing a song after it ends, living
in it, enjoying its faded beat, no words
now, just humming to a nameless tune,
something that starts when its music ends,
like that time at the intersection of London Road
and something, the dancing and the holding
to Color My World, like being in the middle
of an empty fairgrounds the night before it opens,
the empty seats, the passing automobiles’
occupants watching from a safe distance

That moment when the sun rises, ignoring
the bleak breeze, and you realizing love is never
enough, but sometimes it is all there is, and at any
moment you will raise your head and utter hello
as if it’s a culmination of oral love knowledge

Having one rose petal drop along your path,
exactly at a moment you most need it,
like the moment after mother died, after
her last funeral song played, and you waited
at a distance while father took her hand into his
for the last time, kissed it, and gently placed it
back into her coffin; sandalwood scent
was in the air and there it was, the rose petal,
and by the time you picked it up, father
was at your side and together you both
walked away from mother for the last time

You not remembering the exact moment
a summer rain stopped falling but still enjoying
the smell and the wetness, those fleeting moments
remembering puddles in front of the Beach Road house,
the single elm with its branches over the patio
you later took down after Dutch Disease sapped its core,
and later seeing the east morning light in your window
where branches used to be, that light you remember
now when back then you didn’t realize was there at all