The world narrows

to where two sleeves cross,

where one wrist touches another

and hands entwine.

Feeling the warmth of skin

and solid bones resting together

in such a way

that makes the heart aware

of the pulse of lovers.

The pace of cozy quiet

and daydreams of scenes passing by

amount to a shared language

of all the unspoken things

while holding hands.

The hum of a bass

from a car passing by,

a loud thumping strumming within

A gale howling like a animal

looking to break free of the forest

but caught in shivering branches

A heart pounding with deep feeling

thoughts stolen from another time

where hope sounds like thunder

After rush hour, after the storm,

after loving, when alone time has come,

lights turn blue from sky to sea

The hum of waves and wind

pull and push while love keeps at it

beneath a dallying sun and moon

A light flickering in the foggy night

with no moon or night bird

to keep time. Just a stream

somewhere just out of sight

heard like a song almost forgotten.

We don’t forget

but feel the memories

like taking off a watch, finding

the band has imprinted on skin.

The time is still there

when we close our eyes.

A tree plays with moonbeams

to the frogs’ delight below.

There is no end to a song

when it’s picked up and carried

even on the quietest night.

At the pond

with frogs, herons, and evergreens,

I don’t feel so ungainly

with my heart spilling out

and thoughts floating like leaves

making ripples on still water.

Here is a place for instinct and fate

with no judgment,

a cycle of growth and sleep

laid out like a story’s arc

to follow through air sweet with spring

after a cold winter.

We started on a page

scribbled by firelight

with coyotes serenading

through the night.

We have seen Venice and Paris,

traveled by train, by flight,

haunted abandoned warehouses

and museums, danced on wires,

laughed with angels, embraced

the dark, read verse not yet written

in each other’s eyes, and weathered

seasons that march on relentlessly.

Endings are a myth

as art renews like love, like spring,

like an echo of song

to carry us through.