I reach out my hand–
you reach out yours.

A flake mid-fall.
A bud mid-blossom.

I reach out my hand–

Light coats my fingertips in glitter.
Stained glass mirrors running down sides of nails.
Hues of cold glamour,
in blues, in purples, in deep reds,
when all is needed to thaw years of winter:
the warmth of a touch, the warmth of a hand.

We’ve measured the speed of light to the meter per second,
but have we had the chance to hear it?

The sound of light is a lonely one;
a miniscule tune in a world’s cacophony of verses;
lean far enough the barrier and maybe you can hear it;
the call for a friend lost beyond the spring.

I reach out my hand–

Beyond the spotlight, darkness awaits,
A void without rhythm, a void beyond the stage;

Can a melody of two be heard
beyond the boundary of night and day?

I reach out my hand;
a blizzard in tow.

You reach out yours;
monsoons bestowed.

A day in a year,

A raindrop in a sea,

A flight of a snowflake
meeting a blossom in a kiss.

In this day of three hundred and sixty-five,

I reach out my hand–
you reach out yours.

We meet, this spring day.

–Β “J”Β 

LL.

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