Photo by Alma Ortman

I’ve written poems
inside my head
for days
for you.
Like early songs,
they build pieces of stories
I want to believe.

Your face does this thing to me —
it reminds me of how I feel
when I catch a bird soaring through sky
in a way that dances with the music
playing in my car.
It’s joy that comes in simple surprise,
it’s a secret moment of synchronicity with soul,
it’s how I can say I love you
and feel special and solid
and warm
in my bones.

A version of me may still be
getting used to your yes
(healing comes in shades,
not waves),
but it’s so easy
to pocket my hand in yours
and feel the ancient trees at our backs
as we hold up our own songs
in a gift to each other
under the drama of moonlight
and fire.

We’re listening.

And then it feels easy
to take on the bliss and beauty
with the chaos and storm,
the stillness and flow,
the tenderness
of living and loving,
of building and holding
and building and breaking
and building and repairing,
alone and together.

The quiet part of your eyes
has a smile to it that soothes
the softest parts I know:
my heart,
my gut,
my throat
unfold.

.
.

© 2020 Alma Ortman. All Rights Reserved.

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