How is it that by a moment’s embrace
you impel the very earth to dissolve,
or by some small gesture compel my love,
brushing a few fallen hairs from your face,
or pausing a moment to tighten a lace
that has loosened at the back of your dress?

How is it that by the merest caress
you persuade a season to slip away,
subdue every hue to softening gray
or make all my hoarded pain matter less?

How is it that you can do all of this
and still, by the slightest turning away
as I lift a finger to touch your face,
condemn me to a cold and windswept place?