As your arm arcs the garden hose across the thirsty ground suddenly
what went before takes me by the hand and leads me to the places
where all my choices branched.
I follow to the crux of each departure, trace its swerve and bend as one might touch the naked body of tree, let the force of each chance, decision vibrate.
So young and green still those curves where love became a way to give not take.
July 17
-Jane Flint
