She runs with me today, a being
whose feet rest on my sneakers,
an astral body, or a ghost. Flaming tips
of sumac lips howl at us in the damp
winter morning, and mirrored
puddles lick at our legs from gutters.
On the sidewalk the letters
J-O-Y traced in wet cement
with a finger tip – a name or a feeling?
The air thickens with moisture
as we pad up the last hill toward
home, our face beading with droplets
from misted pine, cypress needles
and sweat – we are bathed in liquid as dark
as the weedy bottom of a lake.
At this cusp, this final push, we dare
to let the water flow into our nose,
our mouth, fill up our lungs, and we
recognize that yes, we can breathe.
Balanced On the Edge 