How do you hold forever in your heart
with no hands?  Words that we utter
to ghosts are more real...

the distance between us all is the same,
living in the bubble, a thread in
the tapestry of our lives.

Promises stain our lips as they cross
boundaries.  In celebration of always
i give eternal somethings to nothings.

The summer fields are heavy with dew.
And then the blooms die, making
way for new deaths and old renewals.

This is my gift, a vignette of singularity;
a gathering of the sands of time,
granules of what we have, weathered.