That's not wind,
it's the trees breathing.
Behind the mist,
even fallen branches
fill their lungs.
It's morning,
her hair gentle in my face.
Eyes scan slowly,
heart fills in for all I might miss.
I examine the tremble of her lips.
Such gravitas a single breath bestows.
She wakes
and light is equal to the task.
The dark gets out from under,
is exposed by deepening glances.
Beyond the window, the forest,
someone will achieve more than I.
But who will peel apart
the hardness of the world so easily?
Touch is such a sweet vocation
but with an engaging fingertip,
I make it art.
In waxen light,
emotions seek out physical reminders.
That's not regret,
it's the rippling stammer of a lake,
the shredding pillow of a cloud.
That's not remonstrance,
it's merely birdsong
seeking out its mate.
Her face widens, skin sweetens,
body murmurs, refutes the sleepy council
of her sheets.
Who but me
can catch her in the act of her becoming?
It's when what I yearn for
is superseded by what I have.
I'm longing for something
that came to me years before.
I'm out on the porch
hand in hand with her,
watching that bronze patina
of a sunset,
another long fulfilled requirement,
and how easily her fingers
feel it into me,
every drop of orange,
every gleam of red.
It's when I conclude that
more than enough is still not enough,
that what I have,
I want to be without
and then have over again.
She kisses me on the cheek,
as if to say here it is once more.
I haven't the heart to tell her
it was there already.
I need it gone and lost.
And yet, I still want her
to be the one to find it.
John Grey is an Australian born poet, works as financial systems analyst. Recently published in International Poetry Review, Chrysalis and the horror anthology, What Fears Become with work upcoming in Potomac Review, Sanskrit and Osiris.
del.icio.us
