For A Middle-Aged Woman, On Soulmates

The search (or hunt)
as it’s known to some
is all the worth in all the world
and unraveled, globes soon come undone.

The pounce–
that hungry moment when all is given,
and briefly, so sweetly so,
all hackles fall unrisen,
all worries are smitten
beneath the light and slowly falling rhythm.

The moments are eternal,
if anything is at all,
and like the soul can spin infinitely lost
or cherished,
made to grow through seasons
of interminable frost.

Mates are made by mutual accosting,
the meeting of two solitudes
whose orbit each enfolds

and trepidation of the spheres
spins greater still in bones


One Comment on “For A Middle-Aged Woman, On Soulmates”

  1. natasha says:

    Gorgeous. Especially love the couplet at the end

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