Her fingers — soft, fresh & pink:
Tiny miracles; shyly animated.
Florets, bloomin’ slowly, at dawn;
kissed by soft, orange-gold light.
His hand, rough & raw.
An old tool.
Crushed by time’s cold anvil;
etched by harsh, hard shadows.
Her delicate fingertips reach for the outer edge of future’s halo;
his, the glazed crust’s scabby past.
But, for now, they join …
Shadow & light’s flickering dance:
Coarse, brown-black, abrasive bark,
grape-vined by soft, slender, jade-stained sprouts.
“1–2–3; 1–2–3; 1–2–3, stop!”
What memories might this moment make?
What stories might it tell?
When he’s been minced to ash & dust —
& she’s become Bordeaux.
