That character who hesitates in raw twilight.
I want to cup his obscure knowledge into my hands.
I want to scoop him like spring ... and sip.
I want to sculpt his hidden meanings into words.
I want to probe his language, feel his tongue ... unwrap preserving veneers.
Sliding poetic fingers into me, he empowers my spirit to recite what his hands help create.
I yield to his greatness with difficult ease.
He enters me again, and again, as sacred lyrics swim.
His name is on my sigh.
So now, and through the remainder of our days, when we grab for our own pen ... I will sense the stroke of him.
The taste, the sight, the sound of me will linger.
And our hands, our thoughts, will reach.
© brooke brookreson