in the touch

In the touch, of knee or hand or lip, sometimes of eye or whisper and even too of silence, is life, of breath breathing, of lungs filling of sun rising, of dawn dawning the day in warm tones, the streets golden, leaves glittering like sea. There are sighs that feel like lapping waves in summer and caresses slow as feathered quill looping thoughts into place, of the wayward calf gently guided back home, of the light upon the porch burning as beacon the way. She is the water to my fish, the air to my bird and how I swim or fly without her is beyond my comprehension. The world becomes literal. Moments, so rare, are seen clearly and held precious, each a bubble swirling and floating kaleidoscopic whirlpools upon its rising sphere where dreams live in the gloss of an eye held in heart’s sight.

I have not written much of late for how does one write of what cannot be written, where the attempt falls as knees upon concrete and the hands bleed as labor swings the hammer unheard upon the nail not seen. She is the lumber of my world and everything is built upon a shared foundation, of walls that welcome and not exclude, of windows that hold the rain and smile the light of day, quietly, without fanfare, this natural movement of sunlight upon hardwood floor, upon the table with two cups and two chairs facing the garden, of life awakening and all is seen, sun and rain, as life living those irreplaceable moments, where magic happens in unspoken togetherness.

In this touch, as sun on the face in late afternoon, the glow of day exhaling the way to dusk, is warmth and nothing other. A place where smiles bloom as flowers, nourished above and below what is known, as roots grow deeper in a farmer’s rain, in fertile soil rich in all that is needed and nothing that is not. As the flower needs not wail or whine or jump and wave, too this expression of life in flower, in bloom, in the smile of petal hueing the day, need not attention called, or word written or voice calling.