Late January
The word “longing”
opens a sky
of evening, summers,
the stream at our feet so dark
there is no ripple can be seen
but the opals ringing
the stones you skip,
and when you touch me, afterwards,
you’re warm as the sun, earlier,
your smile catching light
no longer there,
and I can’t even think of the harm
that we ward away
or the pain that will come,
no matter.
***********************
Back at work, computer acting up, writing on iPhone! Here’s a draft poem! Hope all well.
ManicDDaily 
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