Have the sun right there in the west on its own time,
ready to fall away exactly when it should.
Have the cello late at night between your legs, your right arm aching
as you try to press one note into another.
Have the waltz in your mind. Have the orange in the large grey bowl,
your fingers holding its scent of new light and promise.
Have the walls clean for a day after painting before the kids come
with their expressive hands. Have yourself stretching low, washcloth in hand.
Have the paper, blank and abundant, the easy glow of black blue
at night, the morning fog lifting as if it’s never been there.
Have the dream of short palm trees hiding the machinery of cancer
while men embrace in T’ai Chi and heal each other before your very eyes.
Have a mother and her small daughter hopping on one foot in front
of the Victorian house in disrepair. Have the squirrels watch.
Have the voice speaking almost Yiddish in your mind,
the siren of coyotes, and the double whistle of train you can’t see.
Have recognition and wonder, turquoise earrings, a car that starts
in winter, one thick wool sweater under your coat.
Have love too – all you’re willing to join with,
plentiful as air. And the peace of not wanting.