Keeper of Sorrow
He touched my pool of sadness.
I did.
I let him, as I always do.
The ripples went on into my deepness
giving my soul a start, a shudder.
I sank my hands and feet
resting; drinking up the thick purely bottom
and felt the beauty of despair,
like a slow bird rising, it's long wings
to make angles like fallen match sticks.
I moaned, but did not moan
the moan of a woman in despair,
but rather one of a woman in steady awe
a weathered stewardess of intimacy
a keeper of sorrow in magnitude.