Where I touch you lightly enough,
there I am also touched.
-James Richardson
When your eyes are closed, I still feel
the radiating clouds that imprison
our breath in winter.
I do not await our days,
I do not remember our days
of light curtains drawn in
old-fashioned rooms with French doors.
At siesta, the warm afternoon light
rinses our skin in golden hues.
There is nothingness in my four walls.
They are cream and etched,
save for the daffodils.
Outside the window, a peddler
plays his violin with new ardor.
We wonder why we chose to be alone.
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