Beyond accusing anger
and burn of bitterness
wrought from beaten jealousies
of rank contempt
risen in fury and fatigue,
the touch of one hand
caught within another
is miraculous.

So we slowly stroll
across the pale sunlight
of September afternoon,
fingers intertwined,
palms pressed warm,
speaking of long years
spent as moments together.

Crowds cannot distract
us back to our forgotten rage,
nor cool breeze from unseen river
tempt either you or I
from this simple sharing
driving every doubt away.

The feel of your hand in mine
is sweet memory of ecstacy pressed
intimate in pleasure
of a wonderous joining
that brought our children
into being-

and now, I forget
why we had fought.