sense of source

Kindness pours from your fingertips-

rivers without a sense of source, flowing,

from soft slouch and warm lips.

 

My heart, a storm-worn gutter,

pulsing in hazy, blurry heat

flaunting to dry wind my rhythmic stutter.

 

You rush over me, and wildflowers root from air.

I have learned old spaces- tight pavement breaks and choked corners- to survive.

It is a luxury to bloom in your sunlamp care.

 

I catch your flood in a barren moat.

There is no such thing as a one-way bridge.

We walk freely between safety and invisibility (they are not the same).

 

Kindness pours from your fingertips

into the storm-worn gutters of my heart.

Wildflower roots bind my life to my life, and I hold on in soily grips.