Gesture

 

Last night,

you floated toward me, as, I suppose,

a lover must,

carrying with you

that crisp scent of dawn,

the sunrise dragging behind you

like a dress train.

 

I was trying to burn a bridge in the rain

with nothing

but a soaked matchbook,

shielding in vain each stillborn spark—

 

I was fleeing the blitzkrieg.

 

But you stopped short at the other side of the valley,

measuring the width and depth of the canyon

separating us,

your quivering eyes suggesting

the fear of courage itself.

 

I held out my hand,

silent and shaking,

sensing imminent danger

in the beating rain

and the wind-rustled grass behind you.

 

You spoke.

Your words softened the rain into fog,

that mist thickening and dividing the valley.

 

A gallant gesture:

I had fire in my hands,

while you became a shadow of your former self.