When I touched your hand,
almost by accident, I felt the
ground shiver as if I had
brushed against the earth’s
electrical pulse and lived to
wonder, should my hand touch
yours again, if I would survive
the beautiful moment.
Years have turned into decades,
in many ways thrill to contentment.
But yesterday you passed my chair
and placed your hand on my shoulder,
very lightly, no message intended,
and a torch in the shadows of my
mind ignited, revealing a memory
of a day long ago. Two lovers
walked among the garden flowers
on a spring Saturday morning, so
much in unspoken love, when their
hands brushed lightly, flesh upon flesh,
and the trajectory of the earth shifted
for a brief second to affirm the awaiting
journey and all the joys to come.
Our hands are the roadmaps of two
lives bound in the sacred journey. Far
from the smooth skin of garden recollections,
taut and unblemished, we bear the marks of
life’s beautiful mystery, even majesty. And
still, even still, your touch leads me back
to that Saturday morning among the flowers,
walking in the garden of our delight through
the fragrances of lilac and roses, hoping
against all hope that the walk would
never end. And it hasn’t. And it won’t.
Here. Take my hand.
Walk with me.
Sonoran Desert Writer 