what story
left unwritten
haunts the tender hours
the crawl
that makes her bed
beneath my own
what innocence becoming
was the place
I first believed
love would save –
love for us
atoned

what blessing
goes unnoticed
adorned to dusty shelves
wrapped in sleeves of linen
tied in bows
shades –
the same as kisses
warmed beneath the dawn
as winter falls
silent in the snow

. . .