Parallel Park-ing

A trade wind enhanced by a murmer;
something that
as of yet, is not.
Winds of change.
Is there any other kind?
Winds of history or comfort or presence,
winds of boredom,
winds that companion crimes of passion ...

Their origins are no great mystery ~
Human touch; the friction between lover's,
my hand across my son's hair when i wake him.

A breeze to pull a dollar from loose fingers
but only make you chase it a few steps
- Ha. Just teasing -
Got change for a big bill?
How 'bout change for a change
while I make old mistakes
in new ways, wondering what
lies on possibilities anterior.
All that's there; we don't think of 'those'
things if they are things at all if
they are at all there beyond our 'there,'
for 'no thing' encompasses much.
Much we cannot even doubt amidst our oblivion
of 'its' existence. Gaps.
Beyond doubt's shadow is not certainty;
beyond doubt's shadow is
the unknown.

Where my imagination falls short,
my hope begins ...
and my fear.

The simplest, most obvious 'givens'
are rendered foolish when moved
very far from their textbooks.

Parallel lines defined.

Equi-distant travellers staying their course.
Precise and never veering, never crossing,
of course.
But beyond a certain line of vision,
Out there
where
space is curved. Great implication.
It's a playground and how they behave beyond the
vice grip comfort of mathematical rules;
it's up for grabs. And while they do
whatever they do, in honor of our MIT grads,
they make raspberries and laugh.

We are on a path. Side by side. Parallel lines.
Walking to the park, my son and I toward
a swing set. And for awhile, we do swing and
we leave our stomachs to catch them
on the down turn; giggling.
But at some point, we stop and dangle for awhile.
It almost always happens, watch any child;
we start twisting. And we'll wind
the chains taut
to knots until
we can't hold
or counter turn one
more inch.

Let go.
Lean back into the spin
and maybe, for awhile
we'll have a sense of
something
just on the other side;
on possibilities anterior
and those swing chains,
those twisted to knots
parallel lines,
will wring out their secrets,
spill them down
render us dizzy
yielding against
and despite of
science's fearful obstinance.

Of this, a wind is born off the
space where they unwind.
I bless and call it back
in a brief prayer, that it might
return to him in later years; blow shut
a textbook and open his eyes.