She had melted mud
on her pretty palms.
With a tentative touch,
we held hands.
It subtlety squished
between gritty grips,
dripping down
to the foyer floor.
I saw it suddenly stain.

The ringing rain.

Wild winds
creaked, crashed,
and bent boughs.
The storm sighed
a bitter breath,
the mud made
a blood bond,
and I softly spoke:

"Don't drop
my hollow hand,
make mud
our only
counted care."

She said,
with a tiny twist
of her happy head:

"Why are you talking like that?"