Unsteady

Unsteady

In time's distance
I catch up to you
on a simple street,
hold you
in conversation
a moment only.

Turned from your purpose,
you turn back again,
the child
round in you:
it is, indeed,
late spring.

I stand still,
a prisoner of coincidence;
you go the way
you must,
and I cannot
follow you.

Later, I
come to your door,
a stranger;
the child
uncertain
clings to you.

There are only words
between us;
I dwell on them,
the silence
in me stronger
than words.

My eyes
grow mute
in twilight,
and I live
in the sound
of you.

I imagine
the ballet
of your fingers;
they, too
are silent movers
of thought.

Somewhere,
I wait
for words
that
flash
in air.

Unsteady
at my post,
I watch
at each new corner
for you
to turn again.