It is the lightness of a hawk
That dresses the wind,
The tracings found
In crushed elegies of frost.
It is the shade that disappears
Into summer’s resinous hum,
The sigh contained in all rapt silences,
The shudder in the belly of a rose.
It is follies of henna
Tracing their whims
From hand to arm,
It is the hesitations
That we make our walls.
It is affection’s shy, insistent cousin,
The companion word to the verb, to love,
The blessing held
In the soft benediction of other eyes.
It is the slow, consensual, untouching dance
That steers toward the rising of all our tomorrows,
And, it is the aching moment
That begins
The quiet dawning of the heart.