When I write
it's just a poem
but what I feel it is in my spirit
words are a tool
to poke and ****
feel our way around like wanderers in the dark
most wander by
sometimes all do
but sometimes we find each other
then what I wrote
is not just a poem
but the vehicle of connection between you and I

Why
snow is more beautiful than rain

Rain flows
snow melts

Rain can't melt like snow
but snow can flow like rain.

Parallel lines once—
Somehow converging
At such an improbable intersection
No equation calculated the outcome
If x was the distance,
God turned engineer—
Solving the crossing,
Integrating us.

The story of two people,
sitting in the gentle night.
They hold their hands
without impatient fear.
Maybe this is true intimacy?

Too many plans, too many
subtle strategies
in the hiding place—
everything to avoid
the pain after.

Longing for what could be,
we say goodbye
to the now,
that leaves so quickly.

Between words,
taming the common confusion,
we will never come any closer
to another human being.

Celebrating the quiet feeling
of comprehension,
absorbed by the paradox of facts—
above differences, imposed tattoos.

We are sitting in the deep,
friendly night,
holding entwined hands
with an ephemeral moment
of fulfilled, trusting intimacy.

Rolling in vapid indignation,
Violet trees bloom rapidly
Seething succulent felt petals