when the bud bursts
leaf or flower
frost passes through the woods

rain at night

in the darkness
raindrops fall
like pebbles on my face

nobody

she is not
she has
no 
body
sunlight filters
through her air
and her water
flows gently

no form
no body
that is hers

no body

death
is
no
body

earth
water
fire
air

only the elements
are selfless

afterwards

afterwards
we gather the fruits of our love from the blanket
afterwards
I give you my hand


I must have written this when I was 19. a bit disappointing to see that at 33 I still write poems about hands...

home

home is where my hands are

tearing salad leaves
wet from washing
kneading the dough
for bread
wiping noses
and the table after food
folding clothes
and tying my hair up

home is where
my hands are

these, too, are real:
the raindrops
the path
the trees
anemones
the blackbird
your hand in mine