What of the wonderment
of the touch of her skin
the way it rises to meet you
even in stillness,
she’s unfolding,
shallow breath
belies a quickening heartbeat.
What of the wonderment
of a mountainside shrouded in snow,
a crystalline layer shimmering sunlight
onto your face exposed and upturned,
willing to receive warmth
as you move on.
And isn’t it wonderment
in the face of a child
when you explain how
we are all made of stars,
rebirthing in endless forms,
and even if you can’t be certain,
you wonder too
at how a voice is transparent
yet carries with it texture and weight
that can break your heart
or mend it;
these words are made of nothing
yet can nourish an emptiness
you couldn’t tolerate before.
When there are no more words,
and you sink into the reverie of silence,
your healing will hold you,
and give you back your form.
And isn't that a wonder?
How we come from nothing,
unbearably whole,
and fracture into endless pieces
so that we may experience life
through ourselves,
again, and yet again,
inhabiting a sense of wonder
that you came here with,
as you touch her mouth
with yours, her breath your breath
fingers gently holding the bow
of her body, recalling a rhythm
so native and vibrant
you can only surrender.