maybe it's the staccato of your fingers drumming on my knuckles maybe it's the way you tell me it's what you want too
maybe it's how a palm is an offering or a suggestion always answered in kind
maybe it's how your voice gets as soft as your hands when you hold both of mine
maybe it's when you laugh at me for reaching for your hand before doing the same
maybe that's why it's so safe

His finger tapped the book,
Encouragingly and gentle,
That old finger,
That had pulled triggers in the war,
That had touched his girls in tender ways,
He gave me a smile and tapped again,
Sunlight shining in his grey hair,
In his beautiful eyes,
I haven't looked down yet,
And he was still tapping,
I was thinking of his many crinkles,
Smile creases and frown wrinkles,
The day was ending,
I should leave soon,
I should look down,
But mesmerizing, was his teeth,
And I stared and counted,
And I observed his ear hairs,
And nose hairs, and beard hairs,
But the old man tapped again,
On the blank strathmore page,
I haven't drawn him yet,
His green eyes fail with the falling of the light,
I hurriedly drew him,
He paid for my work,
A work that dissatisfied,
So I went home,
And wrote about him,
Filling a page and a half.
                           from firefly

The moonlight sways and swine
It whispers on the illumination of the stars
A mirage of the skies evens the pace

The stroll in the silence of the woods
A haste, the heat, a taste of the kiss
Amiss in the mist of the dense pastures

The evoke of passion, a poison
What a mission? Dissolution
A destitute encaged in iron bars

Redeemed to breath again
Expounded in light, bounded insight
A knight of a night....What a might?