We are mathematical,
an equation —
we are a sum of what we miss;
one year, it is an open night sky, seen from the top of a building,
the next, it is the sight of tall majestic trees, while eating dinners on a
tiny porch,
barely big enough for two,
another, it is the garden we built with our grubby, fertile, compost hands,
the earthworm finally relevant to our existence;
today, it is you, the sum of my equation,
the numbers, the objects, always attached to us,
as we move from place to place
state to state —
now, I lie awake,
working out the next equation
minus you.
About the author:
David Woodward resides in the Montreal area. Statistically speaking, the odds are rarely in his favour. He doesn’t aim too high though. (The earthworm is his alter ego).
