Murmurs of Lesser Opulence

It isn't the sidewalk or even our clothes
as the venue of which we scribe
the color of our secret which everyone knows.

If you etched cuneiform in tablets of stone
would it be time that washed the meaning
from each of those carefully crafted notions?

You might vault words in mountains of granite
yet for the meanders and ribbons of intention
the heart always remembers the shape
and never once -- the tender of words

Grace

It easily transpires in a fingertip
the simplest of frail gestures
scrawling scraps of handwriting
never again embrace an earthly voice as a pond rippling in unending memory
and the everyday scent of wonder