Notes kept on the tongue

(Image is one I took last year)

(After reading "At Last" By, Elizabeth Akers Allen)

In his eyes I am grace –
a heart fashioned in the light
of the sun.
In his palm I am an angel, my wings:
white lace in rivers, weak in-between
days, flutter-less if only for the moment,
if only for the second it takes for my
walls to collapse beside him.
And I slip like summered fruit into his
giving fingers. Together, hand in hand,
we walk the hours caught between us.
His breath, my gravity as we move
from city to sand.
I am utterly on fire.
And I do not have to say it,
but there is no place that I would
rather be.
He cradles my sadness and all four horizons
shift into orchestrated blue--the wind,
a trumpet beneath the sky.
Excited in our coming, it draws him
to his knees. He whispers “You’re beautiful.”
Scattered seas unfasten and we wash away.