Clasping of the hands


The ocean softens,

as it lashes gently,

over the mad, sharp crags;

Trapped in the pull

of their longing,

They dissolve, slowly,

into each other.

But is that not the order

of all things?


The stoic trees;

Do they not long,

for the wind?

The birds, for the sky?

The storm, for the calm earth?


My hand, for yours?

My being, for your breath?