By | 1 February 2014

(for Rebecca, my Beloved)

In the slow turning of the seasons
we hang our names over the cabin door
and hold each other close
in your grandmother’s bedroom, grandfather’s bedroom,
our heads and feet perpendicular to their phantom limbs,
still at the axis, engendering Love.
Same axis, new direction.

Across the lagoon where winter ducks dive deep
spreading circles in the dark
houses hang like shimmering paper lanterns
and circles spread like blessing eyes.
So still. I recall the first time
your eyes danced for me
your upturned face, alighted.

We were young activists then,
committed to our lovers and our causes
but no one had ever looked at me that way before.
Men and indeed women
had looked at me in many ways
but the illumination of your gaze
and the startling movement of hazel eyes
held me. So still.

And we were god-like,
our limbs so strong I could spin 100 miles in a single day,
Brought together in April sunlight
I extend my hand
to connect us climbing a red rock in the desert garden.
How we walked then, the silence sufficient for holding
our proleptic sacramental moment.

Somehow I folded the yucca seeds into your hand
and we said goodbye.
You held those seeds for eighteen years.
Now we dive like ducks in winter
into circles of our own making.

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