It could be as simple as a log placed over the distance
that separates me from you. A fallen cottonwood tree.
But it’s never that simple, is it. That was not really a question.
Look, I have my shovel, my level, my concrete blocks.
I have support beams and metal straps, planks and nails.
I am ready to do whatever it takes to build this bridge. But it doesn’t
take an engineer to know that foundations need firm, fixed
dry ground. And you and I, we are moving targets.
Whatever I think I know about bridges is not serving me now.
Time to consider a new kind of span. Something elastic,
adaptable, accommodating, and, is it too much to ask,
durable. Perhaps the problem is that we ourselves are the obstacles
we’re trying to cross. We want and don’t want to be close.
We sabotage our chances to meet. I am going to start thinking
in new metaphors. Like migrations. Like rivers. Like wind that churns
and touches and bends every blade of goldening wheat.