when the ancient rhythms return
it's like her tide is
snuggling up to my shore.
like an accepting echo,
i hear myself reflected,
inflected with her nuances.
her voice is an old song
i'd forgotten until i heard it played at a bar
by a decent cover band
a few beers into my evening.
her embrace tells me she will never let go,
but that she is scared to hold on.
we slip into conversation
like into a hot tub-- naked,
and to relaxed by the soft heat all around
to worry about
what the other thinks or
what will happen next.
she is a cardboard box under a bridge,
a quilt and a rocking chair.
she is a cup of steaming tea in a snowstorm,
one familiar face in a multitude.
she is home,
and i want to be there.
What did you think
Comments
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Good stuff! Again, my favorite part:
her voice is an old song
i'd forgotten until i heard it played at a bar
by a decent cover band
a few beers into my evening.
This could have been cliche. It wasn't. Kudos.
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