My hands, always the perfect gloves for yours
naked, they hung as flags on a windless day
quiet in the shame of all the lonely things
that they couldn't do
I sat alone in the crowd. I stood alone on the street.
A social eating disorder at the buffet
We are such complex machines of dreaming
piecing our selves together with pleas,
and promises of self comfort
but no words were harder or braver
than admitting I am lost without your hand
That though I move, and smile
and give care to others
I was my prison, and every cell
full of myself. . .
So my darling, when we forgave each other
for being apart. . .
when our arms ribboned together
wrapping our beautiful presence
we bless one another
two deer, practicing leaps over white fences
bowing swans in the sunlight
treading on ripples and quivers
barely able to contain our renewal of affection
Our butterflies dusted off their wings
like chinese fans, painted for a festival
My love, we found springtime in the face of autumn's end
