Saturday, December 29, 2007




Fastened with warm hands and a smile,
the miles, the seconds, and the firsts,
of course; letters, laughter, and faint
whispers, spoken with blush.

It is the moment after the voice, where
no one has been left standing, where one
more minute could shatter.

At the quiet points, I am asleep.
The winter wind may pierce the pane,
but I cannot feel it--I remain safe
in loving hands.

And when I have entered dawn, holding
no more than these lines, the splendor
of it all completes me--it lingers softly,
like the scent of rain, long after it has
have gone.

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