Hands Across the Park

The New York winter sun
has risen in your East,
and will set in my West,
for this one shortest day.
A world shrunk to a patch
of wooded arbours
where souls can meet
and find their willing flesh.

This snow-cloaked park
is all that lies between,
its crooked, spinstered trees,
naked from abandoned leaves,
are veiled and downed with
the frost-flecked confetti
of fleeting bridal relief.

Your seventieth to
my eighty first,
with many roads and
twisted paths between.
But none where line of sight
is lost to break our gaze.

Your brown, my blue,
their two philosophies
deep liquid pools
of trust that beggar words,
though we will speak them
because we must
to be ourselves.

Words that will bind us
where we linger hand in hand,
conjoined by thoughts
and then full lips;
warmed by this local sun
that will change the paths
which drove us north from south,
and bring our distant souls,
lost in their wandering,
together at its zenith.