olive branch

Remember

the first time that I met you in the darkening springtime night

beside the harbor’s murky glimmer, pierced by alien-bright lights –

columns of orange and blue, and far off, one great fuzzy halo of

a warehouse silhouetted azul with sky hovering just above?

You joked about my accent and I teased you about yours, these for-

ays, testings of each other’s wit and boundaries – playful wars

to find out: can the pull we’ve both felt stand up to the weight of our

own personhoods and separate worlds and schemas, histories and hearts?

Your shoulder against mine, your hand – it starts – and stops – and starts again –

against my waist, a place to rest – we’re slipping into more-than-friends –

yes, we belong here with the shimmering lights and waves, we have become

a small reflection of their calmed-yet-moving equilibrium.

I wondered, vaguely, far below the rippling surface of my mind,

how many sandbars like the one before us did the tired dove find

too mucky-soft to spend a night or yield a plant, and also, was

the branch it brought the first it found, or did it browse around? because

it wasn’t just a branch – it was a proof of fertile, now-safe ground.

Not just peace – hope for future, evidence of world reborn, refound.

I looked up – scared, brave – found you looking down to meet my upturned face –

and smiled and leaned just slightly more into your hand against my waist.

photo copyright me