A poem — read at the right time, in the right light, and then read aloud a second time to be sure the magic is real and not some trick of mood and light (but all art, she says, is trick, all timing and tender willing) — plucks a string still so long that just the pull is a motion aerobic in its relief.
It adds ups.
These words float across water like cotton from the tree. They skim the surface of invitation, land lightly in a pose of patient calm.
This landscape of message and meaning, direction and delivery, does not disturb as much as nudge -- just enough -- the root of desire. Calls to you softly, says grow.