I re-enter into a past thought through
letters, and linger within―dialogue,
the lateral sequence of
I cannot say what moves me or sets
me once more to conversations
in midday, but the senses
becomes brilliant like blue eyes
late to bloom, clarity
―and a balcony
overlooks a woman she sweeps
the ice like a mother would her floor.
On the soft on my nape, words,
rainfall, and the sporadic sun
all positioned to calm the skin,
smooth out the cold.
And I see clusters of green birch and geese
on the peak of rock-face
they blend into
the scene almost perfectly―chest,
touch, and your voice, would adorn
it even more with a luster so vast,
I might shatter.
A bit outr, but often, I hear you
in the far-flung
boughs of those wintered trees,
where we embrace letters
never to disregard what it is we long for.