It’s like caring

Fingers dancing across

My ribs making

Me giggle like

A bouquet of

Spring daisies found

On my doorstep

Sometimes it’s like

A horse at

Full gallop sweating

And sometimes it’s

Like that first

Late November snowfall

As we gather

For the holidays

Sometimes it’s like

That yet sometimes

It’s the dripping

Eaves after rain

Or a warm

Towel after shower

Or sometimes it’s

Just your voice

Whispering in my

Ear those three

Delicately simple words

That you say

Only to me


My life’s men

Have become like

A series of

Postcards of places

Past filed in

A box called

My heart hidden

In the basement

Of my mind

Sought only when

I’m no longer

Being an explorer

I open it

And look at

Them remembering Curitiba

Or Andes or

Denver or Paris

They each bring

With them memories

Of the mountains

Of shoulders the

Slopes of throats

The bellied pastures

And eyed lakes

Men that have

Been long ago