I trace the shadows
in the valleys
of your hands,
breath breaking
over knuckles
like sunrise;
you are my hillside.
I kiss your fingertips,
tiny flowers
softly open
to dawning dew.
And I fall
into the rhythm
of the pulsing
of your wrist,
gentle rocking
of our blood flow:
a confluence--
to an estuary
leading us
out to sea.
***
If I could be
a river
winding down
a mountain
I would twist and curl
and turn and tumble
down to you.
- Martha Scanlan
