Your calloused hands

Your calloused hands bring kindness to my spirit every time you touch me. Hard working strong hands with deep creases, even scarred in places. Never pampered hands without compromise as to purpose or background with pedigree in lost wages from tired labor, long days handling heavy things. But I do, I care, I care for your each breath on this earth. I hope for your safety and delight, when you sleep I pray you have dreams of wondrous joy to help balance labor you have had to provide. Your simple existence in my life has provided reality in contrast to fantasy about good that, as a child I lacked. Your touch a blessing, an unsullied truth in a world full of come-on filled deceit. What made you? How did kindness grow so large, so clear in you that no matter what people do to you, no matter what they say you are incorruptly pure? Your calloused hands bring such joy to me that I know you are the one. You are my darling angel, I will always adore your fine, calloused hands.

Between yes

Between yes and know rides smooth flesh’s yearning tension filled slow thick wanton thrust. Unsure skittish quick hope of connection told in throbs and slides of shadow’s lit late night hunger. Hallway doors bare arms as wandering pink tornado swirls gasps and hot velvet tea. Small heart songs come full lipped, gasping halt breath found fingers hoping for more, evermore. Passion’s words unfound, there is no language, only a soul missing noun.

For Mom