we remember each morning
the art of you
how you weigh a small
urgency; raise it round, toward
our sky
looking for cracks
each word as a closet-
small and warm,
a crucible of hidden things
and dust ... and dreams
and you whisper-demands
to spare us our silver;
hide finger-ends in pools of grey
for loss enters cunning
by the smallest cut
all flesh opens sly
ajar
by the things we lost,
but more
by those we cannot
find-
surcease settled
by your hand,
your care for other
each line peeled wide,
so simple
in movement; so difficult
in art,
the way words pour through pale
cracks,
through lines of palm
to ears of far away,
never hoarded
by the equity of a silence
unspoken
Silver trophy winner
Adding your comment:
Love, C
