In the pond, it is easy to let go of the paddle,
to let the wind move my little boat
wherever it will. I feel no need to change direction,
no sense that one way is better than another,
no attachment to arriving on any shore.
All around me, dragonflies skim bluely above the water.
Cotton drifts through the air like midsummer snow.
Robins sing their simple song. In this moment,
somehow unstitched from the calendar,
everything seems possible—like a woman
who feared she could not love could do so.
And a day could open in surprising ways,
new worlds spilling into this familiar world.
And a chapter could be written inside another
so that we would never, ever get to the end.