I feel your fingers trace my spine,
my spine, the first part of me, the record keeper,
and you pressing gently between the vertebra,
as if they were the keys on a piano, finding the tune,
the tune of my life, the dark places, the unfinished parts,
the parts weary from work as well as the parts that will not bend,
that help me stand upright during storms,
that keep my head in the stars
and my feet on the ground
so my back can be what it’s meant to be,
a lightning conductor in life and my way home in death.
DF. W-S 2005 XXXIX/IX
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