Aquamarine

A drop of sea, rounded as beachglass

or a tablet of eucalyptus

on the tongue, its color

soothes the eye with the cool

undersides of leaves. This

is the color of sky just before

sunrise, the air in the valley

still freshened from stars.

It's the color of water gulped from the dark

green hose after a ride on the mesa

and the color to ease forgetfulness,

another thirst, giving words

back to a watchful, timid child

who murmured stories late at night.

It's the color of joy

only deeper, perhaps forgiveness,

when the self's right hand

reaches for the left and holds it

at last, resting. This is the color

that filled my eyes last night

under the three-quarter moon, even though

the pale light flooding the corral

wasn't really the color of sea.

You took my hands, and kept them

long enough to warm them into

a single shape-it shimmered

like a knot of roots lifted

from broken soil. Then you let them go

slowly, as though retracing

that touch for both of us to keep

while the chestnut mare nosed

at our feet for grain, her lips

barely disturbing the rippled sand,

precise as a surgeon's hands

probing a slowed heart.