Touch

I call it touch, those paused moments for indulging in separation. His interest, his ambition and his choice of words in our dialogue. Her curiosity, her laughter, her choice of flavor in our shared time. The tomato plant in my garden in front of my home. Sanctioned against touch, I need and want to acknowledge interaction, intersections. The attention, however fictional, can feed. So, I let myself be touched by the lake's murky water, warm at the surface and cool below. By the wind as it speaks in nondescript phrases. My tongue, by the generosity of his daily bread. Dragonflies skirting and fireflies dancing. My toes in the reservoir's summer water. My hands deep in the earth. His hands on my lower back and her image in my mind.