it was in feeling
your skin
brush
mine
i knew we were cut
from the same
cloth
sewn up in
different patterns,
to be admired in
youthful
wonder.
shadow work
speak to
me
of tender times
in spell that
has no
end
and forsake the hex
of shadows
upon dear wary
friends.
i mixed
messages
till none were lucid
enough to
read
for a mind that never
memorized
the language
of being.
come now hear
a song
of weary whispers
between
the
tips of
crystal pines
down to find us
where we
breathe
the air that shall
forgive
those of us who
grieve
this timely hymn
of beauty
for the ache
it leaves.
noon’s brisk air
beckons–
yet, i dig in
deeper
sinking myself
further..
to be forgotten
by december.
a moment
away
was all i needed to
miss home,
and in filling this
free space
may i no longer
feel alone.
when i’ve ceased
climbing
for fear of
slipping
i’ve grown too known to
my surroundings
and miss the noise
of strangers,
but do they miss
my whisper
amidst the
blurred out crowd?
you had more
light
than we would
burn
off
with
friction,
causing sparks
couldn’t be
turned
off
but we prefer
it dark.
a hanging
shadow–
i pass through
you
notice not my
whisper
in blind attempt
to catch your focus
if only for the
moment.
was not prepared to
feel so stripped
by the threat of
one stranger
with a pressing need
to be heard
while i could
not lend
ears.
hands in the garden 
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