Your eyes: the color
of stormclouds as the rain fades, as the light
begins dawning behind them.

I cannot speak yet of love.
Love is the book; and this
is only prologue:
Your hands at my waist spanning the binding
My fingers, parting your hair,
are only turning the page to reveal the frontispiece.
This is a new story.
We don't know how it will end.

But I will never again see the clouds banked at evening
Without seeing your face at this moment.




February 6, 2005