you say, and I agree: it is what it is because it's given
(but never freely).
like how calling you a poet refers to the making you do,
not the having, keeping or losing.
like how we in our fits of poetry
might yearn for the tissue of words
to weaken, permeated with light it sought to hold,
and finally give way.
like how those birches were just wood, until
we wandered into them.
How no one quibbled over the placement
of a mushroom, the significance
of an owl pellet, or whether every love needs a name.
the world deals beautifully with exceptions, makes none
of its own. not even us.
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