In the hope that my knees will touch rainbows
I arch my back to the heavens.
If I close my eyes tight I can almost feel the flit
Of a hummingbird’s wings on my cheekbone,
my brow.
And yet there is, too, beauty in the imperfections-
Holes in socks,
cold coffee,
weatherworn hands.
For all that we see hides the unseen,
The blind curling of bodies towards one another and
Snow falling in the deep chill of the night.
Because the fact that we still bleed and babies cry
Means that we are alive
Too bold to lie down and die.
Shall I kiss the wind with the same sweet sorrow
That plagues my soul,
Or shall I close my eyes tight
And feel the prism of light
-not unlike a rainbow
Dec 29, 2012
Dec 29, 2012 at 3:38 PM UTC
In the hope that my knees will touch rainbows
I arch my back to the heavens.
If I close my eyes tight I can almost feel the flit
Of a hummingbird’s wings on my cheekbone,
my brow.
And yet there is, too, beauty in the imperfections-
Holes in socks,
cold coffee,
weatherworn hands.
For all that we see hides the unseen,
The blind curling of bodies towards one another and
Snow falling in the deep chill of the night.
Because the fact that we still bleed and babies cry
Means that we are alive
Too bold to lie down and die.
Shall I kiss the wind with the same sweet sorrow
That plagues my soul,
Or shall I close my eyes tight
And feel the prism of light
-not unlike a rainbow
Request permission to use this poem