These are the hands…
books for a birthday
pink and red and black
flowered and
my own well handled
and held in my heart
can they really be
only words?
rhapsodomancy in
the late watches
i have looked for a sign
a beacon, a lamp
to guide me to
where we are
but i could not find the path
i got lost in the dark morass
of a song of despair
but i know where
we were
was simple and honest
a hearth,
a place of rest
and renewal
however brief the
tenderness
how fleeting the day
and it goes now
quietly
into the night
i close those books
and stop trying to
rewrite the lines
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