The wheels had all but touched down in Canberra
when the control tower directed us back
into the storm. You held your breath as
the aircraft resumed its holding pattern.
Jaipur was scalding. The textile bazaar came
alive with the dying sun, flush with jewels
and cretins, the tang of spice and sweat,
bright saris flung and held the lengths of shops.
December in Belgrade, a girl sat knitting
behind a foggy cafe window. She stood
to hold her progress to the light, wrapped
her needles in it, packed her bag and went.
In muggy Charleston, a banana spider
spun a web between palmetto fronds. Silk strands
glistened in the lamplight and trembled
with flies long before the work was finished.
Cape Town reached out to the Atlantic. Along
the water, lovers traced lines in each other's
palms then walked off holding hands in the
shade of apartheid and Table Mountain.
Two vultures wheeled over a ridge in Puno,
descending in an ever tightening spiral
on a point beneath them where they sensed
a creature barely holding on to life.
Goodbyes beget goodbyes. Yet for all the world
we keep returning to its earthly matters.
This pattern holds our lives together.
This holding patterns love into our lives.