Just last year I wrote
of rotten apples . . .
how I slept sad and twisted
on my own tile floor.

This is what happens?
When the sadness is gone—
that space that once
seemed a cave, now
filling with the mineral forms
of contentment, stability . . .
of friends . . . Venus rising
each evening, its light
pokes through the
azure sky,
which ripples into rose,
deepens into merlot.

It has taken that long.
As slow as stalactites grow . . .
A few scarce centimeters
every year.  Until there is
an arm that stretches
down, as if reaching
out for its brother’s hand . . .
the finiteness of ground . . .
to stand, and not feel
legs give way.