Hours before indigo gives way, the stars exalt a sort of bewilderment. Stunning silence. Untouchable extension. A happiness settles one's place in the labyrinth. How does any sentence compare to this?
I wait on dawn's busy hands. The constellations thin into the elongated light of summer's last stand.
On the rosebush a single shoot towers over a flowerless homeland. Yet at the end of the mast, a crown of four blooms – yellow bravery signaling peace. I remember shaking the farmer's hand during mass, thick and rough. His hold was in a hurry as if it was already too much time spent away from the tasks of the farm. Peace be with you. The elderly widow's touch, always cold and translucent, seemed to ask for my other hand to come along side as to offer support and warmth or an extra moment of communion. Peace be with you. The attractive teenager's hand, always warm and moist; was he shy like me, dreading the forced recognition of our shared benediction? Peace be with you.
Our hands, a continuation of the walk we are meant to take. A paradoxical expansion of healing and murder. Violence and peace. What cannot be said flows through two hands connecting the starry intricacy of the expanding universe. What is good or bad fails to register as anything bigger than the imperceptible ghosts of atomic design.
Full daylight now and it channels the first coolness of autumn.
A time of inanition begins to recede as the body wakes to September's staccato dance. Aroused nights; jeans and covered feet; all-day soups on the stove. Can you feel the Connection shift? Stretch out your fingers and turn the soft of your wrists up towards the light; I've seen the answers in the palm of your hands.