Back to writing a lot of random poems. Here are a couple, from different ends of the spectrum.
In the writing of your hand
I can see you
and no one else.
In these few strokes,
raised in back where my fingers touch:
here is your voice alone,
Lumpy, bumpy, crooked letters,
drunken-tilted and too wide;
so comfortably imperfect.
"Can we have spaghetti for dinner?
I love you."
Absent, you remain near.
And shaking my head, I smile--
and take the hamburger from the fridge.
like rain out of a clear blue sky:
strangely sweet and lovely;
made him lift his eyes in wonder.
He had thought it too late for such solace,
in the long and dusty day that was his life;
but she reached out
touched his hand
touched his heart
gently kissed that withered cheek
bringing freshness, and cool clarity--
and out of dry dust,
life springs anew.