Pomegranate heart

She counts the seeds

Of my pomegranate heart

The same, always the same

No matter how many times she counts.

Her fingers are stained

And though she may wash and scrub

There I will be

In her skin, lodged in places

Where she cannot wash me out

 

 

 

 

Wedding vows
you
whose thoughts undulate with mine;
whose heart entwines
whose morals are kindness
softness and heart
whose bendable and unbendable parts
hinge on truth
whose eyes are clear as the howling of wind,
a noise with a deep centre
understood only in complete silence
you whose fingers squeeze with tenderness and intention,
whose very palms explain in sweeping motions
but never statements
you who supports the grain of my weight with strength,
who lets me hold to receive
who is not too proud to be held
you who realises that stopping is central to a spiralling dance
you who keeps a point of contact in the midst of a storm
who supports without guiding
who sets free
you who loves
easily
you being you
makes it easy
to be me
with you