Shadows cross –
days that ache with days
that sparkle seam to seam,
edge to edge, wake to sleep.
I lean
my shadow day on the shoulder
of your gem day, and you spill
sparkle across my shadow
so that the mud of my shadow
squelches to the ground, absorbed,
dissipated, dissolved, and returned
to me a new brand and color
of light, the kind of light
that spreads yellow like melted
butter, for the sweet and the salty
of being me being with you.
The we of us. The us who
have begun to walk
the same pace, a matched gait,
my one and a half
to your long stride,
my spoon to your ladle,
your trademark Guinness black
coffee mug clinked up against
my black witchy mug of the maiden
dreamer, sitting on a crescent moon
white light sliver, white gown
flowing, flowing, like the words
we trade, words that bust walls,
words that build walls
around us, shatter between us,
from secret words, planning words,
journey words, trip over words,
bubbling and foaming, frothing
words, earth trembling and shaking
and moving words, sugar words
whispered between the shiny space
between clouds, the mortar between
bricks of the stone fortress around
us. All of those kinds of weapon
words, dam broken and open river
of words that wash shadows
clean from the river bed
so long run dry.
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