To Kathy

(November, 1977)

Shoeless priestess,
bittersweet sister,
carpenter-queen 
	of the rainy-day people—
What does this mean?
	This smile,
	this blush,
	this breathless hush
	in the space between
	our separate selves?

You draw me.
You scare me.
	What can I say?
	These awkward words cling
	to my fingers
	like clay.

Sapphire-silent,
	you sparkle for me;
cobweb silk;
	electricity.

One morning we met
	on a Monday bridge,
You sporting your bowler
	and me in my green
	(green is for freedom).
I sang all day.

Candlelight curves
	and spring-wound tension—
your honesty
	lures
	and alarms.

You drench me (so thirsty)
in feeling
that’s dizzying,
gather me
	shivering,
	shining,
	transparent,
into your sphere,
invite me to share
	in the sense and enchantment.

How do you know
the other me
so thoroughly?
	I struggle to keep
	you from hardening into
	a myth or a symbol;
	maybe I dreamed you.

Daughter, teacher,
hardly I dare
to look in your eyes.
Your body is there,
behind my eyelids;
	I scare
	easily.

This is too much
like being in love
for comfort.

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