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Each day I take one step towards your wistful hands,
And their long seeing touch of blind and silent waiting --
Slow, sinking glide across the quiver of the pages.
One inch, I'm closer to the voice of your lone wait.
Your voice can listen, and your hands know how to speak,
Your eyes pick up and hold my dropping, heavy eyelids --
In their long fall to you, when all your words are silent.
I'm closer every month for seven steps a week.
You make me close my eyes and listen to your voice,
Without the sense of words, with still and sunken quiver --
And see, without a move, a breath, how in my mirror
You touch the pages slowly, when my eyes are closed.
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