With the moon,
we turn
to think
on all the pleasures
of a common language —
like finding
a friend
you’d thought lost
long ago.

And who can say
how many shapes
we’ve taken since
our descent from stars?
We’ve passed
this way before —
always running away
in my spirit shoes,

with your dirty hands —
and both of us seeking
the solitary,
the silent.
And there is
a spark that crosses
space and time
to bind us.

And there is
this common language
that surpasses
We plant seeds,
tend them,
harvest these words.
And this feast is much better
for the sharing.

About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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