What things are steadfast? Not the birds.
Not the bride and groom who hurry
in their brevity to reach one another.
The stars do not blow away as we do.
The heavenly things ignite and freeze.
But not as my hair falls before you.
Fragile and momentary, we continue.
Fearing madness in all things huge
and their requiring. Managing as thin light
on water. Managing only greetings
and farewells. We love a little, as the mice
huddle, as the goat leans against my hand.
As the lovers quickening, riding time.
Making safety in the moment. This touching
home goes far. This fishing in the air.
We Manage Most When We Manage Small, Linda Gregg
What am I if not what happens
when I try to run away?
Water falls out of me like
an opinion. I’m like a screen
door banging between two rivers.
Dear air, what’s inside me
you’re so desperate to take?
I put on the Atlantic like a sweater.
My head bobs on the surface
of a lake I’m named after.
Where do I belong?
My head asks. My body,
exasperated, answers.
Ode on Humidity, P. Scott Cunningham (Poetry, April 2026)
