ALL Magazine November 2015 | Page 43

Iowa
In Autumn your hands are vein lined leaves.
I trace their lines with my eyes,
unable to look away.
Your face is precisely lined a dozen maps show me
where your smile has been.
Grey nubs poke through your skin.
Because of this I know it is Sunday,
the day I think I love you more.
When the crisp confetti wind picks up
we return to the house where I feel more safe.
It is here that our communal words make love
and our minds blend into one perfect circle of light.
Tomorrow I will begrudgingly board a plane.
Life will resume towards the albino winter.
Poetry will remind me of your absence.
But I will not be lonely.
You are carved into each heart valve;
both nestling in soft cocoons awaiting an early spring.
I will try to hold close to me
how your hands sang arias when you spoke those beautiful hands.
When I feel weak,
we will be back in the safe house,
where early morning wisdom was succulent
and the sweet scent of chamomile tea
showed me how to believe in Sunday.
© Cyndi Dawson 2015