Bluest

All those years seeking resplendence,
how deceived my longing has been.
Memories muscled as otters.

Where the center is
always discernible, I am reminded
courage is billions of years earlier than we are—

and loss is held like a rudder.
Little deer: imagine

there is a space
to forgive ourselves. Imagine
the slow intimate unknitting of Earth, the sky
in its steam and pleasure.

How will I greet you when I am back,
the spectrum not yet diminished in me?