What
You Put In My Hands
Ah,
this precious love ritual we practice-
You
say; “Close your eyes and put out your hands.”
I
am a child waiting, breathing, hoping and dreaming.
The
gifts take time, like leaves, and smoke,
Aging,
and wine.
The silence, the absence of sight,
The
emptiness of my open hands.
Sometimes it is a small feather,
From
a hurried bird, or a pebble carried by glaciers.
Yesterday
it was the season's first acorn,
Green
bodied, wearing a dimpled brown beret.
Sometimes it is a sea shell,
Who
called you from rhythmic waves,
Sparkling
light from a distant star.
Or the colors of marigolds, or bells and bulbs
Of
blooms and vines that creep
Through
my window sill.
They are coming towards me, and for me,
And
from me, and through me.
You have poured into my life this constant flow,
Of
time, of life, of love, and rhyme.
I hold you lightly in my open hands,
My
heart, my eyes, my voice, my life.
The
weight of your gifts is the gravity of my bones,
The
inspiration of poems,
The sighs of exhalations,
Bringing us to the great belonging.
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