I sit here wanting words

when what I really want is you--

not the sound of syllables,

or the right ring of rhymes,

or the cleverness of making metaphors

that bounce off the imagination.

Poetry is what cannot be stuffed into words.

It’s buried underneath like a muffled cry hardly heard,

a silent hand reaching up into the sky

from under mud.

Do you hear my cry?

Do you see my hand like I see yours

reaching from your buried heart,

reaching out,

crazy in your isolation,

your own poetry,

wanting other hands to touch and hold.

Do you remember when our fingers touched

that night we shared a glass of wine?

We held hands and felt the warmth of touching.

It doesn’t happen much--

but when hands fall apart,

the universe is not the same,

and worlds that drift away

are cold.