proposals for good fortune

I

finally,
it is time to learn new ways.

this covering—
soft, curled, familiar—
will not hold for long.

thin, fraying, failing

do not return after locking up
[exhale=inhale]
do not grip it so tightly it cuts
[the thread undone flows like a river]
do not keep it all forever
[boxes within boxes]
do not take a photo to prove it
[it settles in the lower back]

II

yes, I think it counts as one,
though not quite four.

it faces downward, searching for sun—
still, I think it can help.

I tried to give it water;
when I touched it, it was soft,
collapsing, sticky, coming apart.

this one shifts—
purple to black,
then blue,
pink,
white

the roots,
emerging.

III

I saw you set it aside,
on top of the dear, gentle ladder.

I can feel the grain of the wood
you once described to me.

one day,
I caught myself thinking of your colours.

when you laughed,
I tried to write them down—
but they slipped through my hands.

I smiled.

I’ve been keeping count.
and I think—
perhaps a dozen times.

IV

I heard it—
the sound dripping below.

I crossed field after field,
because you said I would find the answer there.

clouds mirrored in the river before me.
I tried to keep the image still:
the water, the daisies,
white and yellow.

or were they chamomiles?

still, I carried in my pocket
a handful
of those smiling things we used to talk about.

in the shade, I found it:
the opening.

I peered inside.

straightening,
arm outstretched,
I threw one in.

it struck the walls,
an echo rippling outward.

V

you asked me to be gentle.

because I hoped you would watch—
how she thins, how she swells.

yes, I see now—
we wane, we return.

and tomorrow, we cast light.