June 12, 2005


My mind flows,
vividly erupting in signs so picturesque and meaningful.
Signs I’ve only seen before in dreams.

And you return them,
simmering in candle-beauty as you share with me the words.
Neither of us speak, we stare at . . .

Our hands meet between us,
moving independently of our bodies and each other.
Together making words no one knows, but feeling radiant.

You lift your hands in grace,
I lift mine in return.
The air a shimmering trace,
Into the night you turn.

One of the few poems from my in-between period.  An expression of love for the woman who opened a new world to me, where poetry is expressed in the hands, and meaning is a question of movement, not word-choice.


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