Yearning
the tender in life,
to know softness
of heart, mind and body
in pleasing commune.
bliss
came home
and there I found
in your work-worn hands that
mooring touch like a silken tune.

People
like puzzles in so
many parts, at times
opposing and confusing,
constant and vigilant we wait
infinite
glimpses of the whole,
and at long last the verge
of pliant edges that fit as no
other ever could, your one true mate.

Companion,
and other half,
life's labor has worn away
some of the rough and left us ready
for love to mold and meld and soothe
together
till there's little
evidence of fresh seams
in the joinings, our humanness
still evident in the jutting peripheral crude.

You
are the answers
to all my questions, even
the ones I didn't know I had till opening
unearthed the refuse of the solitary pasts,
obsolete,
not needed or wanted
anymore. The Future portends
these lovers, two wanderers coupled,
two into one, holding soul hands, held fast.

I hold loose
threads of vibrant
rainbow hue.
As my hands
lie hushed
and jaded eyes
stare endlessly
at fondled strands.

I cannot see
the point. No
sense at all here
in simply seasoned
fibrous filament
to tie or bind.
What is
the reason?

So many flow
down, snaking across
the floor then
fading from view.
I don't know
where they go
perhaps it's
just a few.

They would lie
so still and fast,
yet now I feel
the faintest pull
'gainst my staid
******* posture.
I try to think,
my mind still dull.

Then slow, a
hand slides over
the other, interlacing,
and moving perspective.
My eyes trace
a pattern before
not visible from some
unseen directive.

Then I feel
your hands too,
moving and binding
the lacing blueprint,
this one under,
this one over.
Knowing what to weave
with no vocal hint.

Your strong
fingers slide
a gilded one in
for needed contrast
and strength for time
we'll weave for
the future and
warmth to last.

Blue and red
become purple
as textures form,
singles become one
and the point might
just be coming
at last
before it's done.

Before patience
weaving could
make no sense, near
impossible to guess,
individual bits make
no sense at all
how the end
will come to rest.

Single strands
beautiful, but of
little use in
warmth or beauty.
Put them together.
Form, and weave,
interspersed with joy
is our duty.

We can't always
see the fabric
that wraps us
up in bliss.
But it is as real
as my loving touch
upon your face.
As real as a kiss

you place upon
my lips in welcome ...
or goodbye,
for a season.
God give me
eyes to see it ...
and you ... every
day we're given.

Without consent –
seconds, minutes,
days and years
pressing on …
Where do they go?
What do they mean?
A physical, mortal record,
then gone forever.
Time marching on
in countless ways,
ticking of a clock,
footfalls on the pavement,
bodies used up,
daylight fading to night,
darkness morphing
into dawn.

But oh … those rare
and precious Times
that become
'moments'
imprinted for always,
reside in the heart …
two Hearts
beating the same
for a time,
a moment …
kept for always
if we are vigilant
and recognize joy.
And just plain time
ticks on, marches on,
dictates and drives us.

So live for
those moments,
the only measure
of a real and true life.
Capture, savor,
mortal, but softly
unspoken monuments
in the mental
and spiritual annals
of the journey,
of the things we felt.
A time, indescribable,
not just moving on,
but being that lasts
in both our …
always.