The second thing is this: to have.
We arrive and close our fists on
stone and feather
this, not that
in passion or
in casual reaching out
and pocketing.
This is our history: a line from
first picked-up twig through
painted curling lemon rind to
heaped-up things lost into drawers
still stiff with the fading
shine of our attention.
What can we know as well as
a bowl presented for our
polished gaze beyond
its temporary owner and
the painter skilled with
curve and light?
