A snowflake perched on my fingertip
Briefly pecks with a winter nip.
One, warm from a beating heart,
Melts the finite frosted art.
Distinctly unique yet none perfect,
Two matchless formations briefly connect.
My five fingers merged into his,
Trust his lead wherever it is.
Each tip, clutched in a faithful hold,
Could have a different story told
Of every touch and tender graze
Slowing nights from becoming days.
What are the odds that two will meet,
Even match, though with parts incomplete?
Both, hoping the lend will give and take,
Try hand in hand a life to make.
Divinely paired yet none perfect,
Two mismatched formations briefly connect.
2 comments:
Emily have you had any luck getting an address?
Perfect. Way to finish that poem off with a bang.
Bang. You're dead. Brush your teeth and go to bed.
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