I think of him, weathered hands, strong from long days of working hard...Tired eyes, because he rises before the sun; and stares at it too long.
I think of him, wanting to show me his world, teaching me to be patient, to be calm, to wait for him. He is catching stars for me, and I think of him giving me the moon.
I think of him, his resonating words touching my soul long after they've been spoken, reminding me of his gaze unyielding as we struggle to determine who fits where.
I think of him and wait for him and hope for him that the ends of his previous ordeals will be put right, and then he will have time for me, that we might come closer together...
I think of him, and my heart beats for him;
I think of him--and I can think of no other.
as the tide to the moon.
I rise in tempo to the gravity
of it's ever present rhythms,
and seek the hollows that lay
empty by the darkness of distance.
The stars swallow me, as I lay,
face up to the sky, and dream of
filling the spaces in between each
and every one...they sing in the silence
of a winter night, crisp, clear voices.
Arms stretch across horizons, to wrap
around your words in a voice that follows
the movement of your own, and the universe
swallows my attempts to touch, and sets
one star on a journey, to light the night,
in the absence of moon.
(beautiful poetry my friend...your words are touching.)
~J.