February 14th, 2011


Cupping the palm of my hand again
I inhale your earthly scent, because
I don't want it to ever fade, or covert the
the color of your eyes as reflected in mine
I remember the pasture where we played
until the sun slipped low, orange and silent
against the rippling skin of young ponies
in accord with necessary vibration of living
near the stream that wound through a curve
of land as delicate as the spine ever knew
All this -- more than I know, in my hand.