Another Season

We sleep with the door open.

There's a feeling of home

when the cold slides in.

The odd possums scuttles

on the block wall.

The distant sound of cars

arrive

to our

doorstep in muted tones,

akin to the hushed-sound

of waves falling on a calm shore.

We find each other's

arms and legs for warmth.

Buried beneath thick blankets,

our cold noses mark spots

on our faces, while our lips

brush together --

hummingbirds with nothing better to do

than hover near a ready flower.

These aren't kisses of passion,

lust or love.

There's no awareness here.

The kisses are formed

in the recesses of our emotions,

of our choice

and our shared Selves.

They are the unaware motion

of a ship

turning at sea

in the dreams of a 17th century Captain.

Our conquest isn't one of possession,

but of staying connected to the undertow

that fills our day-to-day lives--

the current that can change

everything

when stepping into the water.