Traceries

I sit beside the me that is you
holding hands, holding our grief, I say,
as you look back at us, those years like a wasteland,
I say, “This is our fertile ground,
this is our watershed
flowing into mighty being, confluence
points in the journey.”
My heart marvels at the way our broken pieces
refract the beauty in these stark-edged, sharp-eyed
raptor places
where we learned to find food, what nourishes,
in crevice and shadow and thirsting quest,
deeply rooted and full-fleshed, rising.
I sit beside the me that is you
tracing our hands, tracing our joy, I say,
as you look forward at us, those years like a wasteland,
I say, “Thank you, thank you
for the living and the dying of it.
Thank you.” Cracked ground a crucible
for new seeds and new concourses,
confluence points in quiet journey
back to all that it is to be you and me, together
holding hands, holding what is
in the crevices and the shadows of self.

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