My favorite image... other than the one of you...
There is dampness beneath his hands and I open while he searches for salvation, shaking hard inside walls not built for earthquakes-- but we hang onto rafters of limbs, his and mine tangled as white linen. I know the soft way to love hard- each time he sends burled wood hurling into the garden between my knees, --not one petal falls-- each flower blooms in perfect shades of pink.
