A Poem: First Night

Spring breeze on old bones

a shimmering rises between us.
You have drawn juice
from a source archaic and aglow.

Through the window the leaves
beat a windy song. The chill air
brushes on vulnerable skin.

We cling to each other
the way an emerging baby insists
on air, survival.
Ancient, we are new.

This article appears in May 2011.