You said it was like
our souls were trying to touch
but our bodies got in the way.
And what now?
Now that each day
I lay
another of my eggs
into your basket?
Once nestled neatly
across the four corners.
They now roll in
of their own volition,
and dropp one by one
into the lap
of your hands.
Your hands that
gently gather me in
and draw me to you.
Into you.
Your hands that take mine,
we bind,
and touched where we would
be touched.
Your hands that are mine
stroking my face, my hair.
And would dare
to ask of me more.
That I be yours,
willingly and completely.
Yes.
My hands that are your hands,
lay folded in my lap
and in my heart.
And under bowed head
I wait for you
to open the door
and come to me
and come into me.
You open the door
into me.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Really like this. The image of love and fragile eggs and trust that one will catch that love was powerful. Thanks. - chuck