Standing Before an Avalanche of Moments

There is a softness in love--in the tint
of it (and in the breeze). The heart takes
in this softness and distributes it evenly
throughout the season.

In the heart, sincerity can be quiet;
a sequence of heart beats, moments,
or lovers stilled by the flush of
the moon.

And on the perimeter, the heart weighs
much more than anyone could have imagined.
But inside, its warmth and fragility
thunder lightly--just enough to be heard.

And when the chest aches in expectation,
it becomes truth, and no amount of comfort
can direct its wants into white silhouettes
just hovering on the sidelines of a perfect
fall.

(One must be in the consommé of
things in order to merge well.)

There is a sweetness to vigor, just as
there is a fear of what may become.
Like the surge of the sea, when it moves
in and out from shore, its body wet
and cool, wave by wave.

It is enough.

And it is sufficient that the hand fits
exactly into the hand of another–-
the warmth alone could leave one
ignited between breaths.