Fearing that my edge will fail
when I most need it to stay
sharp and ready
is to imagine myself
dropped upon rock,
dulled so profoundly
I would be tossed aside
for some newer blade,
left behind like my memory
of singing through air
long ago, opening a clearing
in which to build.
Was I ever that, though —
that honed, that useful?
I look back and see nothing
like a clearing there —
just metal discarded, glinting
like lost potential.
For our future
we ought to dance more —
cranes at courtship,
swords at friendly play.
You live longer
with a little banter,
a little back and forth;
when our eyes meet across
proving grounds
with a moment of
uncertainty that fuels
right action, wrong action;
any action, really. Inaction
can suck breath and blood away;
we will go to our graves
wishing we’d done more
with each other. As good
as it can be to sit by a river
and dream, we have to get up
sometime if only to find
events about which to dream.
So let’s do it — shake a leg, do that
primal bop, bring good swords
to this big dance. Let’s play.
Dark Matter 