They are the moments.

Moments as gateways, moments as train rides,
moments with other people
moving slowly like the last
trickles of an avalanche
falling still,
moments which take us
on the wind,
like spores or feathers,
to places of paper and absence,
to lulls of silence, gatherings of heat:
they are the moments.

I can’t put back the summer in my veins.
I can’t forget
I have an appointment at three.
And I watch people in a silvery haze of rain
and I see them
scattering out of view
into their lives,
leaving the rain still falling,
and these are the moments —
moments of watchfulness,
moments edged with dreams,
moments of memories.

I love these moments:
moments of inattention, moments in cyber blue
on an LCD,
of the humid green streak of blurring trees,
journeys on suburban lines,
moments of emptiness and waiting,
and moments which seem to shine
with some soft internal light
a feeling so tender and so subtle
full of the gentlest promise
like buds about to blossom
or eggs to hatch
into the blind and mewing
and crawling and fragrant
purposes of spring…

They are the moments.

Moments in quiet places. At strange hours,
when I am wakeful,
and the world is still
forming like dew.

These are the moments.
Moments of unrest. Moments in the years.

These are the moments.

These are the moments
which bring me to you.