By Saoirse Pira
Lately, it’s all felt like falling in love
and walks in the woods feel
like learning new names— where trees
are for climbing and knees always
grazed.
My hands are full with the feeling
that’s the living like the loving–
and then I’m falling in love
with that being alive.
And in that house by the sea
it stays always morning, the waves
beat their drum, folding foam against the shore.
Call it love, when they carry clams
and stones and sticks and dust
to the boy and the dog
that is always running, always returning, to
whom leaving always means being found.
Then call it love, when I wake
in this bed on my own,
and I fall fast in love
with that beat of my heart.