Map-Making

The rain, all day and night and all day and night again, long time.
I've wanted to take them back, the words that scrawl
long slow geese paddling through the river,
because sometimes we're so unforgiving;
and I fear we'll never speak again
each to each, because we are so true to our dramas.
I want, one day, to know we'll laugh and maybe dance
in our dutch shoes and fancy dresses without men,
except the organ grinder and his monkey as audience...

I want to disappear all our angry words;
take baskets out to the fig tree
and in between pushing tender fruit into each others' mouths,
tell all our map-makings, our explorations
of the springs that bubble up between yr place and mine
without exploding into rage, resentment.

Oh you. I'm so lonely without the sound of yr non-stop voice
making topographical maps where the beauty of mountain meets
the feminine curve of valley in yr vocal cords.
Yr a journey I am putting my shoes on for.