The softest human touch

The Paths of the Spirit

There is a strange nudity
In your secrets,
Like something waiting
In the shadow of tall weeds,
Climbing into kitchen windows,
Where old couples
Decipher the songs
Of the wind.
In wet leaves braided
With black veins,
And the scent of overripe apples
Scattered in the old garden.
Even the blue lawn seat
Shows signs of those gentle caresses.
But the softest human touch
Is the silence of inarticulate love
While you wait for
The right words.

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