The Qualm

What if happiness is splashing in the shallows,
stroking the tips of fingers with foam,
washing some grains of sand away, bringing others in;
by sunset the water cools and pulls you toward leaving,
the wind will blow off the warmth and draw it back with the tide,
will begin to rock the heavy ships, the large ones,
barely noticeable to them, yet troubling their course
while they are busy with the coordinated labor of engines.

What if it was the wind that breathed on the coals in the silver of ash;
they warm with nearness, warming themselves,
burning from the wind for light and longer shadows,
igniting and preserving themselves in another.
In the ash there will still remain the shaggy zebra-shapes of what had burned;
a stronger gust will throw the fire where sparks had been so long awaited.
Whether in sparks or flame you will remain - and never know.

What if you mistake drops of rain for tears of joy,
and brush away the brightness of emotion in crystal tracks;
fallen to the earth, they will break through concrete by the force of memory,
and every spring they will bloom so painfully, so uselessly,
withering for a long time, requiring tenderness, dreaming of their own field.

What if the air is fresh only because the winter was cold;
the white, unliving thing, as if asleep without a sign of life;
the bright sun unable to warm, contenting itself with reflection,
trying with all its poor might, unable to shift the axis.
It will trade its efforts for polar night and be found in an exhausted world without freshness.

What if paper cannot bear the weight of meanings;
letters begin to dance, alive with awkward magic,
become more important than everything else, lock feeling in a cell;
with winged phrases, a bird of prey will startle doves by its shadow,
and all that remains will be the shadow slipping past, frightening,
unseen when looking against the light.

What if this is a fairy tale with an unhappy ending,
written in haste by a soulless author;
the heroes are assigned secondary roles, the plot lives on without them.
They are not allowed to influence events, making actions, feeding on ink,
squinting like a cuttlefish, merging its color with the surroundings,
losing its purpose as it nears the resolution.

What if the world lives by feelings -
sharp and exact, like touch;
instant and captivating, like scents;
deep and close, like sincere eyes.