Even Though I’m Partial to Words
Out the window, through snow, I see the irrigation ditch lined
with gray cottonwood trees we have not carved our names in.
As if the writing of things makes them more real.
As if through etching and whittling bark, a love might
gain more permanence, or grow, perhaps, as cottonwoods do,
rapid and full of vigor. Last year, one of the largest lost half its wood,
split deep down the core and crashed to our roof. The remaining
half, a gaping carcass, still pushes out leaves, but stands deformed.
Let us write our names in water, then, for the simple pleasure
writing brings. Let us write it in star patterns, snowdrifts, mud.
Let us tap out our names in the morse code of blood that thrums
through tender wrists, through open hands that reach
for the other’s grasp. And let’s lose our names and see
what else might catch. Something permanent. Like love, perhaps.