the story

When you see me, for the first time:

“May I ?”, you’ll say.

I’ll nod, and you’ll

pick up my hand with

the gratitude of someone who has felt the futility of

waiting for green to pepper salted ground,

but found a garden after walking elsewhere.

And you’ll handle my arm, and

fingers and palm this way,

because you have waited.

You’ll kiss the flat, brown front

of my hand,

and then the palms

and each section of finger

padding, on each short,

white nailed finger of mine.

And you’ll say,

“I’d like to spend a great deal of

time with you, if you’d

like to spend your time with me.

So if I could be with you today, and

each consecutive tomorrow afterwards,

I think that’ll be enough.”

There is a story caught

between that moment

when your right eye caught me,

and then your left.

"...pick up my hand with the gratitude of someone who has felt the futility of waiting for green to pepper salted ground,"