Evening Poem #80

We hesitate between continuous
and continual. I know not
which. One bears likeness
to the heart's beating, and
the other to the kitchen
light switch, which is not
open but at some point
closed, but not at regular
intervals. I sweep the floor.
It is continuously gathering
dust, bits of banana
bread waved from the counter,
half moons of a fingernail
peeled away while the coffee
brews. Our summers return
continually. The trellis
laced with tomato blossoms,
the yes no, the forgiveness
you feel when pulling weeds.
Perhaps there's no reason
to decide or no reason
to make the decision. We
are continual, continuously
locking horns, dust on our
feet, tomatoes stewing until
the end of time, or later,
when the light comes on again.