Your hands, your light,

the sustenance of
my heart
as me giving way

Arriving as vapor
in visceral transparency

placing me
in a stave
of our cadence

a bold-flow choice
viewed behind

patterns of
hydrangea blues,

like a melody motioning me
in a cantabile of chord

and movement,
keys the pitch

smooth as acres of eternity,
riding damask waves of

trusting decisions
in a knowing
in a razing of

all pedantry and ego
with sweet dollops of lucidity –

like remembering the
smells of August in a
New York City of 1988.

© K. James Ribble