and the limpid silence in between is a braid
that proves there is no difference: there is pain
anywhere, and there are brief moments made
of flame. You feed me soup or bread, then
kiss the tips of my fingers. And yes, I am afraid
when the wind’s dark voices warn that we won’t finish
what we started— Ardent love, wild hope: don’t vanish.
[LAG-signature date=”03 09 2013″ url=”http://morningporch.com/2013/03/159123165/”]