There have always been times in my life that only poetry could touch, let alone attempt to describe. This is one of them.
I gaze at the woman,
Her soft hair cascading,
A sable screen lit with gold
Small mouth tugging on her breast,
And all I can see is the
Dark brown corkscrews bouncing around
Her ears, her mouth a round O of delighted
“I’m not a delight I’m…”
My daughter, his mother,
My heart dislocates, has gone
“walkabout” on two journeys made three.
I used to have one body, now
My love is housed in so many it can never
Fade or fail and she doesn’t know how big
Is the piece of me she carries,
This beautiful kaleidoscope of
all the unknowns in-between.
And still, she is that one,
That covert and lovely angel,
Proof of second chances and of grace.