With Her

Holding her hand in mine,
as the bus made it’s way
on a small road cutting a rice field.
I scratch her palm with my little finger,
it is soft and it makes her giggle,
like a trickling brook.

The wind plays games with her hair,
She rests her head on my arm
asking me when, I plan to give her
that poem I said I wrote.
“I shall”, I say.
“When the time is ripe”.

Time flows like aged wine
through life’s eager throat
When we are together
The shores with their
brilliant sands look like
sprawling naked virgins.

I play with the soft
vibrance of her young skin.
It makes the wind wilder still
and the green of the fields
more velvety.

With her my heart beats
like the gentle deep waves
of high-tide.
With her my spirit is undone
from the plasters of wounded history
With her I am born again
like a butterfly unfolding its wings
to a young sun.


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