Footsteps accumulate around sacred waters
when nearness enables communion.
Our conversations are never the same and always the same
sex, death, body, G-d/s, moms, fear, faith, falling, planet, person/s, pregnancy, power, classrooms.
Gentle soul: i never get enough of you.
Especially now when time zones and zip codes place barracades.
Especially now. To bridge the gap: you send me gifts,
mostly poems, always mind-blowing
in their secret knowing of : who you are, who i am and the holy intersectionals.
Your gifts delight me
but in the gifts i keep feeling this invitation to imagine
what life might have been like
if i hadn't been drinking myself into oblivion
and you hadn't met your future husband
while we were occupying the same (ridiculous) territory
completely unaware of one another
many many years ago.
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