Alphabet Soup Minuscule

J.C. Scheff

 Palms


The sweat from your palm,

Presses itself, wet to mine.
Catching itself lightly inside my thumb.

As the sun, seizes our left shoulders,
The right lay in our own shadows.
I wonder, if this side,
Are the parts of us we hide?
The parts the sun can’t quite reach.
Yet, the wind easily makes love to.

Soon, the dead leaves will cover the sound of our toes on the sidewalk.
But not yet.
Because today is still ours.
And the shops are still open,
As the people purchase and make change for twenties.

And you.
You with my palm in yours,
Leading me from and into the seasons.
Are always window shopping,
But never stopping to buy.

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