We stepped from hope

    into dance

    when we wed.

I remember how

    brush and glance

    turned

    to taste and touch,

how our great oak floors

    turned

    warm under the quiet morning sun;

and how we learned

    to dance together,

the flesh of our feet

    wearing the wood,

    my hands guiding your curves;

We turned

    about the spirit

    keeping us

    and

    kept between us.

All our steps were new

    and grounded,

    planted in trust,

    and planted in surrender.

We grew

    together.

Until you

    turned

    inward

    and

    away.

Now,

    the clocks tick

    without mercy.

Now, the spirit moans,

    and my hands are torn open;

Now my feet are flayed,

    numb on oak floor rotten;

Now I taste

    and caress

    naught.

    …

To sweep the desert

    bare with holy wind

    until it be free of sand,

to wander outside your cold house

    until you walk out again,

to dance with you on repeat

    on fields of deep cool grass;

I have fought,

I have endured,

and I hope,

    yet —

Even if your freedom

    were again uncovered,

even if you breathed

    open warm air again,

even if you heard your heart

    beat in time with nature's song

— I wonder if you

    would rise,

    release yourself,

and step from stillborn rooms

    into hot windy light,

and again

    join

    our dance.