Beside a waterless fountain

I recall a sob,
torrential and

"endless"


longing for your gentle, hourglass fingertips
to pick the salt from its earthless reflection.
But in time
I was calmed by the inconsistency of the trees' windless-sway,
and slowly I turned from your stoic, static hush,

my eyes
to the heavens.




And now I'm caught    white-handed    in the snow,
swaying to a mysterious song in the cold amber of foggy trees.
A rumbling, a thunderous growl
grows from the bellies of the children
who have not yet satiated their zealous hunger

for the taste of skylight.




I sense the soul is undulating, my sweet friend.




And as I stare down at myself in puddles of rain-shade,
I recall childhood dreams of strangefruit,
and the feel of cold grass
against the napes of necks.



Finally,
I understand that your fingerprint swirls
where mine loops

(and why you could never join me here inside the trees).