in all my tiresome never arriving,

to find this sunbreak an elixir

that slips away before I can drink her to the dregs;

or that sweet moment with you

whisked briskly into the cold alley

of having just been, already longing for the next.

How Good comes in lucious snatches,

in rushes and batches like flocks of birds

whose instincts send them south for the winter,

crossing skies in pulsating patches.

And the wafting scent from the baker’s oven

passing me by is not a tease, is itself the gift

among all the others, that uplifted trail

of stones breaking the surface of the creek

enough to make a way across for nimble feet.