Soft

Soft

Nicholas Yancy

for Zoë D. M.

Soft
like the curve of your cheeks
as they wrap around to hide behind
your eyes, two dreamers fixed upon
my rough hands, one sweep across
praying fingertips, one last glance
as they close, smiling as they slip into dream.

Soft
like silk hurrying 'round your legs, dancing
as snow falls- each step sacred, different, graceful
as the geese rising solemnly from these bare trees,
they're tired and desolate, ready to move on, but
stuck- still-life, too much part of the picture,
too much a part of what it means to be cold.

Soft
the way you sigh, 'You're my December' and walk away.
And how I stood there, bound in mist and cypress,
taking in the cold, my hands as these bare branches
reaching out of the earth, but frozen in place
as they begged for rain, only snow fell
as I begged for you, only memory came.

Soft
like the edges of evening
as the sun dips down to lift up the moon,
lift her where she can start her journey
alone, just like how he'll wait for her:
soft between waves of starlight and
the dream of her dawn, with him.