To the Oldest House

I want to start with small exchanges
like words in the margins of underlined books
that reveal particular sensabilities,
a long conversation and a cup of coffee at an odd hour,
a few sentences on a piece of folded paper
stuck in a shoe to test whether fate can beat
the friction of a day walking,
Finally, a small plant like a covert promise
of care or day dream about growing,
followed by a nap where no one sleeps
and less touches than on a rush hour subway.

I don’t want to be courageous or daring,
I want to be held, to wake up to find
the fragile palm of a leaf left on the desk
waiting for my breath to fly its reds across the room.
I want to respond in the evening
with two scarves and two hats,
and a pair of gloves split between us,
worn only on the outside hand.

I want it all to thrill me like a thunderstorm
entered from under the awning of a shop that cuts keys
to the innermost rooms of that oldest house.
I don't want any big black umbrellas holding off
the passion of the storm as we start the search,
for you must be able to see the difference
between the rain drops and the tears before you kiss.