Love

Love

Sitting in the grass in the backyard,

Hand to chin and

Leaning against a tree,

He watched.

My friend said, "His eyes followed you everywhere."

In the summer Midwestern day, there was a buzzing in the trees,

And a humming between us.

I barely dared glance at him.

When I did, when we talked later, alone,

I knew I couldn't make love, not then,

fearful of the shattering that might occur:

a drummer a writer a giver a heart that walked.

So we talked. Weekly we met and talked for hours.

I shed first the hat and let my hair fall, unwrapped my scarf.

He threw off his blue jean jacket and sat to unlace his boots.

Carefully, one by one, he unbuttoned the plaid shirt of his being.

Not a stitch of clothing was removed.

We undressed ourselves with our talk:

Our moms who died of alcohol, abuse,

Our pain, his tears for losing his girls after the divorce,

His wife hating his music; my husband, my poetry.

Piece by piece we removed the protective outer layers

That hid us so well from others, from the world,

Until at last we stood, two naked souls,

At peace with Knowing that we were one.