I’d spent the morning staring down 

into a caldera, ropes of steam 

moving past me to pursue their own 

relentless cycles. I could see the city below, 

miniature buildings gathered tight

along the shore like teeth.  

Everything love took, I’d handed over 

willingly. This loss would not transform me— 

I would make these same choices again, 

hold open my life like a window 

to let in another season’s sun-rinsed air. 

During a stint in Seattle, I kept a box 

full of tinned fish, cornflakes, & canned

peaches in case of earthquakes, eruptions. 

Of course, I knew my planning

would be of little use.  

Some phenomena, no amount

of rehearsing can prepare you.  

Faced with everyday marvels,  

this is also true. The first frost  

of the year always astonishes me; 

each full moon is somehow  

unexpected, new. Picture this: 

I had just moved again, was starting 

to unpack, to unfold my old 

solitude. Light fell in bright 

branches around me

as if it had been shaken loose. 

It was early spring in Boston. 

Then, suddenly: you.