The Path

The first time I held her hand was happenstance,

Near where the dandelions grew along the track—

Golden florets of forgotten pastures, in romance,

Amidst the city of voiceless wanderers that swayed,

Silently in the salient evening made.

I outstretched my arm, caught in the contrast

That came from the rocks beneath our feet,

For I must mention now, it was the overcast

And rain that slickened the path we wished to trot—

Even so, in my eyes, the sun was not forgot.

Our fingers neither intertwined nor convoluted

But found satiety when gripped in a gentle gesture

Which made it apparent, my heart was muted.

For a moment my words would not align

Assimilated with emotion I dare not define.

Never has my hand felt more out of place,

A fumbling grasp beneath her finesse—

An earthly entanglement against her grace.

The first time I held her hand left me fervent,

And completely aghast, without intent. 

    DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com