In Palo Alto, in spring, some weeks
it’s summer, some winter, some spring.
I learned these words somewhere else.
Mostly it’s spring and summer. Here they give
their hands to each other: one will pull
and then the other, twirling around the room.
It’s hard not to get caught in their rhythmic fold:
everyone’s surfing out here. It’s easy to forget
something small, deep below the surface.
A dreadful interjection of winter isn’t what rouses
my sleeping soul. It’s stumbling across an artifact
of another human reaching.
Later this year, in the east, I’ll dance alone to keep warm.