Perhaps if I told you your face is the moon’s,
a rock, bright, defying all, but most of all, gravity,
carving flight paths of stone that land
then fly again from the surface of a lake,
you would find there’s nothing too heavy for flight.
And, perhaps if I drew your hands on my back,
you’d see how two birds touching down make
stillness out of tumult. And, have you heard that
words are stones, chipped away from faultlines we cannot
read, but whisper, write me. And, can you understand
that when you lean into my arms,
all that you are is a root, curled and naked,
climbing from the boulder split, which cannot drink
the rain it feels, or see, despite the sun that pours on it,
cannot understand, only witness, the scent of its silence,
the magnitude of its flower.

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