|Duck, duck, goose!|
She introduced me to a lovely trail not far from my home--one I'd never known was there:
We wandered in the direction of a nearby duckpond:
And then we exchanged poems in the shade.
As always I was blown away by the precise intelligence at play in Lisa's poems. Here's one I've admired for a while now, the title poem from her recently published book.
Whatever it may be, we may suppose
it is not love, for love must leave its trace
like contraband seized and displayed in rows;
is not sufficient reason to erase
the careful lives we have so far lived through—
there is no call for us to undermine
the walls we've built; no need to think anew
of all the chains and choices that define
us still. And yet for all our fine intent
a single touch ignites the night and tries
resolve past all resisting. What we meant
before we mean again; fidelities
have yet been known to shift and come undone
and all good reasons fail us, one by one.