The evening air makes sense,
I pull away and feel lightness, as if.
To be. A sparrow or a raindrop.
How do the imaginary birds on our pages take
to our February hearts?
Believe me when I say life comes to life
beneath her
fingertips.
Creating the texture and beauty even on the plainest
mornings
Paper tigers in her hands,
paper sacred feathers
she makes them play and dance.
Each I have felt on my lips.
slender and deliberate
like the hum of honey bees
like the path of a summer storm.
Trace them with my breath,
her palms
stretched wide,
wondering and reading the stories in the lines,
I often recite your quotes.
Along my shoulder harness,
to my neckline,
on my chest plate,
down the mounds of my vertebrae.
one by one.
I count your fingertips on my lips,
rose petal
jungle flowers.
Andrew Tipton
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