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A Poem: For Bradley 

On Taoism and the Company We Keep

I had never noticed the colour of your eyes.

I found this amusing, watching your nose crinkle in a spontaneous

combustion of genius, of joy, of light, of wanting or giving or

very hot coffee.

Have we been too nearsighted to find our own hands?

I could confuse mine with yours, get lost in hunting down the dragons

in the valleys of our palms.

Is this all we have been searching for?

Is it really that simple?

Always, as if time existed; even then, we can choose what to believe.

I wouldn't trade a breath for more words.

I wouldn't put on my boots if I didn't plan to get them dirty.

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  • A poem by Irene Zimmerman.

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