Outlines
Behind closed lids the seasons
percolate—
unborn oak leaves, grey heron’s cry
ripping morning out of darkness
of all this, life emerges to
forget—she wants a horse,
the
experience of knowing one—not to own it. We come together, mouths
grasping,
weightless—rustling gently over
legs, crinkled t-shirts, circling over navel.
We won’t be this close again, for
the rest of our lives. Does anyone still
use dusting
powder?
Aster and forsythia along the
walkway, where at midnight we blow bubbles
sowing dreams of family, rest our heads on the one pillow edged
in periwinkle,
Nannie
embroidered—
the crowns of our heads waxing,
waters running over us all
expanding beyond the time of
ignorance—
an older simplicity advances as our
hearts release one another,
untouched, a sheltering veil.
[Variation
of previously published poem.]