Distance is only a measure
separating that which cannot be measured.
Seeing past the stumble stones,
the tree falls in desire’s path,
only a hesitation, a slight impediment.
You are seen with eyes clouded
with the scars of other loves.
Everything you do, everything you say,
every graceful gesture, movement, glance,
a salve to heal these many wounds.
One can only watch you to know
there is a special being seen.
So the day passes until there you are,
on the corner, waiting for the light
to change, a step into the street
is the Bolero of Ravel’s symphony.
Scheherazade unleashed upon this life,
this kismet of the moment.
The breeze gathers your skirt,
plays hide and seek with your hair
revealing such beauty and warmth.
You do not know you are watched, adored.
You turn the corner, gone from sight
until another day passes and you are
again the beating of this aching heart.
Copyright: 2008, Donald Harbour