Woolen Blankets

Raw Earth Ink

feather-soft, I trail fingers
through waters deep and wide
reaching beneath the surface
touch all the real places
covered by your depths

cupping my hands
I taste, with greedy lips
all the things you never say
(are they for me, your words?)

inexplicably, I know you, feel you
verses weave and wend
picking up the threads
wherever they lay
I knit them into woolen blankets
nestle and curl underneath them

your poetry becomes my home

tara caribou | ©2021

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