Saturday, November 26, 2011

For Jill

The wonder filled words for the wonders we feel aren’t words at all They’re not the words in this poem to be bunched up or rhymed They’re not the sing-sung words of other poems and tales we read aloud at wee hours They’re not even the words from the oddly but sweetly breathed lyric we rediscover to each other over and over They’re found in the whorl of a whispering wind helping orange and amber hands to shimmy and sway as they reach up from the cold cement to touch our warmth They’re bound up in the low hum and hard pull of a half moon as it sits in its still-lit blue and nods down to bless our walk They’re the sound of everything we’ve ever wondered at They echo nothing but the beauty we’d only squander if we could never share it And though we can’t rhyme them or read them or sing them we can always hear them together.
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