Whatever is most precious to you –
that wildly beating heart
in the alcoves of your soul –
bring it to me,
lay it before me,
and let’s gaze on it together.
Why do you tremble,
as if I would uncreate
what is already complete?
No, my child:
I have longed for you since creation.
The leaf of a weed
beautiful in death,
or is its life just arrested,
like me in this moment,
petrified by hushed silence,
fingers of fear
melting, wrapping, squeezing?
Ready acceptance of the present,
colors not even yet dulled,
but all I feel is suffocated,
tricked by perfect stillness,
trapped by encroaching cold.
I gaze again at the mystery.
The grip loosens.
A binary constructed
of blood and sweat is
revealed as a lie
swallowed whole
in fear and pride.
The melancholy of winter
stirs souls and whispers
a painful promise of hope.
Suddenly all I feel are your
hands on mine, rough and warm;
your heartbeat disrupts
the chaos, a welcome reprieve;
your fragrance clings to the
strands of my hair
and finally, I can breathe;
the world shrinks to just
you
and just me,
and I sense in the thickened air
that everything is OK.
I Sing My Soul 