Our fingers meet at point,
assemble, form, and bind.
And our voices touch, creating words and warmth from way of sight,
gain strength on soil that has scarce met rain
but now blessed by
we taste awe and
I close my eyes, I can see your kindred secret fear.
Your limbs are doe eyed, grasping roots,
steadied only by my nimble rise.
turn returns to theme,
Tear down the last of my
my fruitless imitations of excuse.
Erode with captivation my constitution of
My length rode in on stipulation but here in dell of derivation,
I find I'm more inclined to linger.
Inside chimerical divulgement, delicious verse, verbs are vows of sorts,
so I bow now, less uncertain than before,
beneath this fiery blush of budding.
Scrawl the script and I
Shape my shadows, and rearrange the memories of my cells, one by one, to free me.
Readjust each feeble freshness I imagine
cease of wind
and in this brush,with driven valuation, pops of color will reemerge,
a fashioned replica of flourish, now revisited.
The Sunday Whirl