She slips out of time
as easily as silk,
making visitations
like a holy pilgrimage.
I follow clumsily,
fumbling with buttons.
I am so tightly laced
in flesh and bone.

Drawn with her by
her drawing eyes,
two lighted windows
in a wintered face,
I glimpse a trace
of unnamed color,
feel it stir in me.

Her voice,
as if the years
like scales
were dropped away,
unwraps a melody
as clean and tender
as a newgreen sprout.
I let it play in me.

And then she sighs
as if landing,
roots her knotted fingers
round my wrist,
curls into sleep.

I gather in these bits
if undone time and
knit them into me,
knowing one day soon
we'll only find
her body,
vacant as a snakeskin
or a spent cocoon,
left here upon the bed.

-- Deb Cooper

Send Comments to Greg Gordon MD, CFI, cydoc@earthlink.net
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