Various and Sundry Poetry

some distant galaxy of a language

How we wake up sometimes at the same time and turn to look at each other and do that slow smile like when you turn a corner and this amazing bakery smell wafts toward you and without even realizing it, or knowing that you're capable of such a thing, your whole body moves into that smell. Arcs toward it, bends, dances. Your body opens so wide, everything else comes in, too - birdsong, old train tracks, a dropped nickel, the soft fold in a grocery list bearing a sweet surprise of a lunchbox treat. Everything comes swinging into view, and you welcome it, and your mind relaxes, and things become fuzzy and clear all at once. We wake into the morning like that, fuzzy and clear, our smile like that bakery smell and the beauty of old train tracks and the glint of a nickel and the crease of a fold of paper holding a secret, and there are no words, no words but that smile, though that smile is also a word, I'm sure of it, some distant galaxy of a language, and it means goodness, and it means arc and bend, and it means saying and not saying, and it means dancing. Most of all it means dancing.