This dance is too long.
We have caught the stream
on our feet & are shackled
with stream vines.
We can dance no more.
The trees drag the clouds
into our morning & the sky
weeps for all that we have lost.
Yes there's tragedy in the soil,
if you dig deep enough.
Yes there's agony in the house
if you feel its hot skin.
What I mean to say is
we can't pretend
we did not bury too much
of ourselves in building this home.
We can't pretend
the cost was not more
than our love could carry.
But we can work at it again.
We can bend spine towards prayer,
catch each vowel of suffering
from each other's lips,
kiss the runnel of old tears
off our face, press the cloth
of our skin together again.
It is not over yet.
We can still staunch that wound,
shore that foundation,
find our path back to sunny skies
& birds fluttering,
mouth full of aubades
for the morning of our loving.
What do you say?
Will you come into my body
like fire? Will you burn me
to burnished bronze?
Will you become prayer
& I, worship?
