Lying on my bed,
my mother's disembodied voice
rising querulous
from mobile propped against my breast;
I'm not listening.
I picture clever hands, instead –
tender-touching chords
or finely chopping vegetables;
tethering long hair;
out-penning fall of rushing thoughts,
nib skipping sidewards,
describing impish memories –
starfished joie de vivre,
gesticulating as you read
your new poem to me.

How well, I recall
that first entangling of our hands,
gentle fingertips
embossing Trust upon my skin
and Love's fierce embrace
interlacing ardent limbs

and

                sudden

unlocking.