To Here and There

I.

I think on my shoes propped
on a wooden writing desk,
the leather synthetics, the soles, the
wear, and the feet they protect - feet
which take me here to there,

and, again, to here and there.

She walks in and says "hello", with
a kiss and the usual small talk, as
if to say "I love you" in the little
things (the home we've made, the life
we've built, the not-so-little-after-all
things, you know).

I watch her lines as they move
in poetic form, her slope, her glow,
and the soul of a woman who takes
me here to there, and, again, to
here and there.

II.

She's the fogged breath on my
telescope which blurs the
view of comets in outer space.
That is to say, she completes
me.

If I think on her ways, the
red-washed waves of her cheek,
and her blood orange hair that
licks the salty sea, I find it's too much.

She, lensed by angels and brisk as
ghosts, is all I know.  We each breathe
fogged breath to blur the scope,
and like weathered boots in the snow,
from here to there, and, again, to here
and there she will be,

and, again, to here and there - that's where I will go.