There is cotton in the air
and a softness about us
like the ears of rabbits.
Every thing
parallels everything:
the cottonwoods let go
their lifted seeds and all day
I remember the smell
of your shirt in my hands.
To think the quiet den
of my heart was only brush
until your mouth half opened—
held my love, your love,
on the tip of the tongue.
There is no room to hesitate,
the seeds have settled.
I am not the same.
No comments:
Post a Comment