Island in the Middle of Wyoming

while spring is dragging its feet, i watch a father teach his son to be a man it’s not about the rules, it’s not the technique, it’s the way his eyes flicker with something you can’t put your finger on, but you know it’s there. just then i realize: love isn’t something to be claimed, it’s something you witness when the moment decides you’re worthy. and in my head im in Wyoming, without ever setting foot on its soil. it’s the softness i’m after, it pulls at me like a distant song i can hum along, but never speak the words. then im reminded they say, “No man is an island,” but i’m not so sure i say that, each island is exactly what it is. close enough to see but not enough to touch.