Wednesday, November 20, 2013


I live and wander in the cracks of your hand; the sun sets on your fingers and rises on your wrist.
My faucet taps your veins; water springs from your capillaries.
Yet I cannot see your face. Familiarity has bred contentation; but not with you.

Greatly do you stoop and pour down your countenance;
Deeply do you plunge and condescend to me.
At once and suddenly I see the plains as your palm and foothills as you fingers.
I thank you for the recollection of the mosaic of truth.