hues yet unnamed by human tongues
grace the moments accompanying the comings and goings
of the sun
(a whole star dedicated to our survival.
what generosity!)
easy to rise from slumber,
restful
when a canvas painted and repainted, constantly,
by the hands of love
awaits my gaze
awaits my body making contact with
the crisp and gentle air
cocoon.
the poems i can't yet write
without recrimination
the stories about things too ugly to name
(words like violence. harm)
wait. they wait on the tips of my fingertips' tongues
they sit patiently and brush each others' hair
like sisters
in the candlelit cavern of my heart
until the light outside appears
until the climate is as welcoming to them
as the morning january air is to my
bicycling
fingerless glove'd
body.
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