Sometimes I think
I must be done with singing,
singing you this rich song,
this song of what
the poets call love unbound
(unhinged more like
as it brings me apart
at the seams) and there,
in an undressed state, it
blows through me and I know
I am neither myself nor
what I might recognize
as myself : instead this solitary man
waiting on her next word,
her favoured look, a light
touch to the shoulder,
which says there is this
flowing between us, a passion
for that detail, those small things
able to make big things possible,
obtainable.

And so this singing can never be done
because it can only be like this now,
never done with, always more waiting
as for a future wind, no matter how well
it might be forecast, we’ll rediscover it
afresh and laugh and smile bigger
smiles than we did at its first breath.

This is what love does to friendship
and the knowledge of the other,
always more to learn,
always more to see and know,
a cascade, yes a cascading
from one to the other
as sand in the hand
to a lower hand
and then reversed.
And so what we see
as morning greets us
severally, but so often apart
and from different windows,
is a coming together
in a joined thought – our morning
is this, or this, or this even.
and so we hold morningness
out to each other like the gift it is,
until later when, reassured that
we are really, really
in each other’s arms,
we feel the truth of it
deep in ourselves.