For A Woman in a Crisis of Choices

Each seed, each life
is begun in the same fated promise song:

that what you do and what you would have done
shall never meet, nor cry
their oaths to one another.

Too many, these tendrils,
whose every snake and bow
births new possibilities
stretching unslakable from the now–

and for each life, each love
that could have ground down all resistence,
is that same love, pacing ancient
and forgotten in her wedding gown.

Such wonder are we making,
such unterritorial chartings,

and turning wine from water slaking
give new meaning with increased volume.

So funny! So wow!
And limping we take our bow;

The author and the audience one and same
the meaning now.

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