You hand fits in mine so perfectly,
I wonder if they were cast from the same mould.
I can feel all of you
in even the slightest touch.
I know our thoughts of the future,
and I bathe in them every day, thinking
one day,
one day.
The leaves are browning; coppers, bronze, golds.
You are silver. A river of it,
a mirror
that I can swim in to the house we’ll have,
with a library,
a dojo,
a room of puzzles only we can solve.
Forwards or backwards,
past or future.
Not forgetting the sweet moments of present.
Treeshallow Musings 