If You Held My Hand

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If you held my hand,

those angry storms that rush in

like muggers, and knock me from behind,

leaving me broken and breathless

on the ground-they wouldn’t come.

And the cold rain that stays for days

and bleeds its gray through every layer

of me-it would stay away.

And the ice that seizes me and my trees,

so still and frozen we can snap and fall

to pieces-it couldn’t form

if you held my hand,

If you

held

my

hand. 

Words Run Through

Words are tiny foot soldiers sent out on missions.

They carry their letters and meanings with weighty might,

each a different hue, a different sound.  Some words scramble

and hurl themselves at their target, and some dance and sway,

so it seems they may never find their way.  Oh, but, when they do,

those words carry light and resonance and make faces glow. 

There are words that are hot, consumed with flames, dangerous

to touch, but still they land and sear, burn through, leave ashes

behind and smolder.  Words of longing carry shades of blue

and sound like a piano in an empty hall, echoing.  They drift

slowly through the air and settle like a whisper on a lonely cheek.

The words of kindness shine and pick up broken pieces, wrap

themselves around until no more pieces can fall.  Words

may have an edge to balance on, until they decide which way

to drop.  When they don’t seem to be enough, words call in more

tiny foot soldiers and weave themselves together in new ways,

creating, becoming something that never existed before,

becoming part of you.  Words have no beginning and no ending,

only places to stop along the way.

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