Living, we cover vast territories; imagine your life drawn on a map--
a scribble on the town where you grew up,
each bus trip traced between school and home,
or a clean line across the sea to a place you flew once.
Think of the time and things we accumulate,
all the while growing more conscious of losing and leaving.
Aging, our bodies collect wrinkles and scars
for each place the world would not give under our weight.
Our thoughts get laced with strange aches,
sweet as the final chord that hangs in a guitar's blond torso.

Think how a particular ridge of hills from a summer of your childhood grows
in significance, or one hour of light--
late afternoon, say,
when thick sun flings the shadow of Virginia creeper vines
across the wall of a tiny, white room
where a girl makes love for the first time.
Its leaves tremble like small hands against the screen
while she weeps in the arms of her bewildered lover.
She's too young to see that as we gather losses,
we may also grow in love; as in passion,
the body shudders and clutches what it must release.

Julia Spicher Kasdorf from First Gestures