I place the string in your hand,
beaded with moments
of sensorium and place, caught, 
time held witness.
Your fingers rub them,
your face like a prayer,
wondering. A series of tiny worlds 
in whole and part, this world—

Up too early, a single ray of sun
passes through the mist,
threads between branches, 
through the glass, into my cup: 
tea set aflame

Fresh from the bath
my body hair slicked 
against bare skin
matching the wood grain
of these ancient floors 

During the totality,
twilight settles north, south 
and the birds and frogs 
sing dusk songs, 
for three minutes

One single, 
smooth grey pebble 
among the rough gravel, 
like a whisper, asking for touch 

How do you find them?

(I do not say: how do you not? 
Because I have already had to learn.)
Instead, I write across your palm:

I never stop noticing.

I kiss my favorite freckle, 
the one on the crest of your shoulder.

I keep the best for you.