The Fullness

It’s not the simple
or the short or the long
or aching
that comes in waves
and tastes like history

it’s not the fact
that she was gone so suddenly
or had been there at all
or almost wasn’t
even as she wept

it’s not the evermore
enticing idea of an almost
having lived all that we could
dream or conjure or impart
and with fever

it’s not the fever
that spells angels
falling through snowstrewn
sumptuous departures
or rememberings

it is the fullness
of all things happening
as they are and in unison
as if time were just an idea
and we in our stark humility

so much more

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