Let it come
without apology—

through the tall grass,
across the open field,
bending every stem
until the earth remembers
its own surrender.

Or find me
in the first light,
when morning has only just
unlatched the window
and the house still belongs to dreams.

Do not speak.

Let your hands
be the grammar
of a language older than speech.

Hold me

as rivers hold their banks—
with such inevitable force
that I cannot mistake
the direction of their longing.

There are moments
too immense for tenderness.

Moments that ask
to be claimed
the way dawn claims darkness—

Where somewhere beneath
the practiced civility of daylight
there lives a force
that would find me
the way spring finds frozen ground—

suddenly,

and with enough conviction
to split the earth open
into bloom.