the advent -

the small things are sent to us
through slowly opened doors,
driven in like rain on pavement.
the small things remind us
with their lives
and tilted heads
of our own exposure.

the top of her head
smells
like a word I can no longer wrap my mouth around,
a moment I know I lived, in the sun,
a time that probably
never existed.

the way she moves from him to I
unable to touch both
like the tide reaching
for the sandcrabs and the moon.

the pattern of her breath
on my thigh
in sleep.

her nose lifted to the scent of cooking
and may
and the sound of the front door crackling open.

his eyes upon her.
then me.

the small things
are the recognition of you.  and I.






GLS
5/12/04