knows how to respect; how to celebrate her. A mountain has ample experience in managing a full moon's luster, bravado. But a branch; how does she welcome the moon? How does she learn that the moon is also laser-sharp insightful? How does a branch manage without snapping?
How does a recipe withstand spontaneous collaboration?
How does a poem willingly invite editing?
How does sadness learn to be?
Waving goodbye, they sent us off to camp and hoped we would survive the bees and nests of contempt from the older children, not imagining the nights we would spend wishing we were elsewhere, as we passed the mustard to the others with their hot dogs and happy families. It is the lonely center of the night when we cannot ground ourselves in the here and now, but wish to unhinge in a special way, become ourselves in another land, another axiom, hear another prayer in another language, recall that lazy swim under a bridge wearing just our underpants in the full moon of the suburbs.
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