Poppies In The Fog

I do not believe our love was written in the stars,

they are too far gone, too unknown,

I believe our love was transcribed in the creases of our hands,

each bend writing our fate long before yours touched mine,

our love could be found in the Great Blue Heron’s feathers,

asking us to pause and reflect

our love was in the thread of Christmas stockings,

heaves through the dark nights like Poppies in the fog,

our love was made in the belly of a crow drawn to shiny things,

our love was burning burning burning,

and then some

our love was laundry, and burrowing right through the tunnel of the mountain

It was not cosmic,

I would not dishonor it in calling it such,

I would not deprive it of the humanity,

it was carved of meat,

it wasn’t a coming home, it was building one,

of dampened earth and blood

I wish I could reach through my body and touch you,

away from the echo and the rumbling and the sweat,

no, not that,

with heat yes,

and body yes,

just before it was taken from me, in the hollow of the night,

when it was just mine, and yours was just yours,

I wish I could hold you there