Maybe I went back out to the car for your book
just to hear the sound of the rain,
just to let the smell of woodsmoke
curl at my nostrils,
tendrils of a different life
mixing with my own.
Maybe the garden called out to me—
the openness of the flowers,
the way they caught light
and drops of wet.
As if their lives depended on it.
Maybe the brush of wind
against the backs of my legs
felt like a lover coming close.
Maybe the darkness
was an embrace;
arms folding warm around me,
a word or two of understanding
breathed against my neck.
This was originally published in Spring 2018 edition of The Helix.
