Methods for going about it

Or, Hint of pear

Or, December 9th

Your friend stops by

bringing

lemon curd thumbprint cakes,

a one-year child

with a snuffling nose-laugh

and the off-hand comment

that reminds you

what you love

in your life.

You have to leave the room.

When you come back

your friend has taken a picture:

the dog eyes warily

the baby's lotus of a hand.

When your life rearranges itself this easily,

it is like lifting and shaking out such a thin veil

that no one even feels the air move.

Your friend loves

her one-year girl,

all the ways she has

already ripped her life open,

all the ways they can't do without

each other.

The thing you love doesn't exist

unless you look at it.  You are allowed

to blink an unforgivable number of times.

When you turn, it turns sweetly, as if from sleep.

When you look, it regards you,

just standing there joyfully abject

you regard each other looking in

secret again.