The tale always begins sometime
after the beginning. The narrator
is there, or is watching there,
and everything that is to come
is already present: the blossom
waits to spread its wings of color
from the bud’s hot fist. The teller
merely lets the story bloom.
Sometimes there is, at the end,
triumph — or loss — often both.
But there is always the wound
of being, and that curious sound
as much like a leak as like a breath,
at first sight of what stretches out beyond.