Our lives – which danced
for a time in the same squares,
cutting the rug in the same patches,
weaving in and out and in between –
We bowed, not knowing why,
drifted to different spaces in the same
country of a ball room.
All that we were sifted
through the floor boards,
and the dust that settled
in the next room down
is what we’ll gather, offer, for
the hope of more.
I did not speak the words.
Speaking them would mar them.
Most of their sacredness held
in the silence that bore and birthed them.
So, in silence they will keep.
I pray that they’ll hold onto us,
as we struggle to find ground in them.