A Thanksgiving
You flutter in my pulse
like a small bird.
We are clasped in the hasp
of an opening and closing,
saturated and indentured
to pleasure-strung stirrings.
Hunting angels illuminate
our tongues and fingertips.
Love opens its eyes in my skin,
if we move too far from each other
our flesh goes blind.
Gratitude is etched
on these yellowing pages of age -
it blooms in the giving
and receiving.
Kindness and care prevail,
rooted now
in our own thanksgivings.
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