Because it's Poetry Month

Painting by Ruth McNally Barshaw

Her baby hands burst open like spring buds.

You invited me to that movie in college where

I put my head on your shoulder

and you took my hand,
roots penetrated, surrounded,
fed us.

She studies both sides

and the introduction is awkward.

We leafed in the darkened theater
in the light of the projector.

You took my hand and

I thought I would never be lonely again.

It seems almost accidental when it finally happens:

Hands find each other,

Neurons fire.

She lights the room

and squeals at this sparkling thing.

We held onto each other,

opened like flowers;

hopeful. 

Hemispheres converge

and we watch it all

from half a world away
until time collapses

in a refulgence of light and longing

to capture a childhood, a love.

I think I've accepted it, 
tangled roots and all,

until she turns, smiling

and reaches

for us.

Outside snow piles.

Inside it is spring.

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