it could be the icepack wrapped around torso
masking new thoughts, along with the pain.
it could be that it’s Good Friday and while there’s no rain yet, i’m waiting—watching for the wind in the japanese maple to make its move outside the bedroom window—twist and pick up, or hush—a baby’s red-faced silence before the scream.
it could be the days of narcotics swimming—surgery no. 2 and tougher to shake.
or, the kids at school, learning theories and math—
learning formulas of numbers and letters—
absolutes—I wasn’t thinking I’d start thinking
about answers today.
it could be the candle nearing it’s last few hours of rose.
the church, doors closed, no stations of the cross at noon—
or the friend who says yes, yes, it’s all possible.