Untitled

Love’s light lit like
the butterfly in the meadow,
her delicate legs dancing
in dew at dusk,
the last rays everywhere,
descending,
down, down,
down to the elemental, to
the truth of it all.

And forgiveness felt like a kiss
and healing felt like healing,
the deep purple of the past
turning—astonishingly—
to white before our eyes.

And the dewdrops made a
tiny whistle when her legs rubbed
against a solitary blade of grass and
only I could hear it.
It sounded like permission, and it was.
It was what I needed to hear at that
moment.