Sometimes, the light in the morning
up over the newly snowed peaks
breaks open my heart, like a window
hit by a hammer, or an overripe
apricot. It’s a heady mixture, that,
glass shards and sweet juice running
all through my veins. You’d think it would
cut. Instead, it flows like a molten
river of lava, shimmering through my skin.
Yesterday, I stood naked in the yard
steaming from the hot tub watching the moon
tip its dark side into the empty branches,
a sliver of glimmer, like a fingernail
left to the voodoo of sky.
Beckon what lingers, unspoken, unformed,
and let its newness unfold in you
cool and comfortable as a hand
on a fevered brow. When it comes,
nothing else will matter.