Footprints
were you to
believe,
could you trust
enough
to know you’re
loved
in ways no one
else has
been?
and though you’ve shouldered
life’s pain
the marks you’ve
left on the
map
are not
coffee stains.
spiritual evolution
past countless corners
turned,
through the filthiest
years i’ve
learned..
that wiping hands
on my jeans
never
leaves them clean.
evening rain teased
us watchers
all the way
down the pane,
where each drop
found its
place-
staring misty beauty
in the eye.
in silence i
lost you
to a desire
for distraction,
then after dancing ’round
buffers for what
seemed like
forever
we eased into the
absence of
words,
“whatever you
do..”
she said,
“don’t get stuck in
their heads,
why crave such possessive
attention?”
“don’t need to inhabit
dead space..”
she said.
that first touch
meant more
to us
than any sea
of words
rippling about
our heads,
we two-
barely afloat
above the
surface.
how can you recall
the dates?
that blend into one
clanging
clock–
atop its ashy
mantle..
pleading to be
unwound
by next set of hands
to find it
making
that ungodly
sound.
swift
to speak..
but slow to
love..
when push comes
to blush
and the game
proves
hard
i crumble like
a tower of
cards.
you’re winter on
the burner
awaiting timely
thaw..
and who would
fault you
for desiring
change?
who’d dare
blame
you
for wanting less
of the same?
you shut and latched the
door behind you
for fear today would
follow you in–
to command so much
more of
you,
to sap that last drop
from you..
reserve the right
to tend to
you.
hands in the garden 
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