The Rope

The rope is a long story. If it grows, it grows
From the inside out. Unravels like opening hands.
One atom pushes the next atom
Out onto the stage. But that atom was, perhaps, birthed
By the last. And as it speaks in tongues
We hurry to paraphrase its contents,
Transcribe its long soliloquies of nonsense.
We bring it along on our walks,
But we only allow it to be one rope.
It finds its way through the field in yellow grasses,
The rocks that have found themselves deposited there,
The rust covered shells of farm equipment.
It enters the doorway between trees.
Its greetings form the entirety of the woods.
Romance twitches on the bed of stones.
Somehow sensual, the lumps and hardnesses
Are snaked with the story. We leave it there
And that is the best gift.

The rope is one end to another, but it is also
many ends. There are only two ends
when you hold it in your hands.