When I think of you, the word
cradle comes quietly to mind:
your hands warm with the slow
prayer of my head, with recitations,
and the candles quivering.
There is no silence in breath,
even in sleep, when it fills the rooms
and the ante-chapel of dream
with murmur, and your whited body is
cradled in my welcome arms.
The stained glass gardens await us,
harvest festivals, the dark path
still visible beyond our window,
and hills, cradling the moonlight,
while we lie inside each other.