Balancing on the Equinox
The golden tree holds her pose for several breaths,
each one a dazzle of wind, rise, fall, feather and run.
Meantime, time. Meanwhile, a man on a bicycle pumping hard
to get up the hill. Meanwhile, the dog tearing down the street,
leash flying behind him. Meanwhile, the equinox:
a balance point when one white plastic bag pauses
at the side of the tree, a flag or spirit or sign
before dropping down to trash again.
I stand in the backyard in tree: my right leg trembling
as it supports me, my left knee bent, leading the hip open.
I press my palms together at my heart and wish for balance
even, especially, while falling. The storm to come
cups the west side of this life. The heat of summer cups the right.
I exhale. The golden tree across the way holds very still
then surrenders everything in the wide arms of the world.
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