Late Morning

Life came late, this morning before thunder,
just as the still faded call of spring
over slumbering bodies yet asleep.
The dark clouded morning is not seen,
as eyes open, still not knowing
which past and which role will they resume,
to which haunted place will they return.
Touching carries, then, the lightness of a whisper,
fingers drawing those tracks with no path
where we find ourselves secretly suspended,
ignoring where we are but not lost,
fearing the threats that will hold us to the ground
but not raising the defence of the arms.
We do not fall because we do not think
about the movements of walking, as we do,
when we meet and stare under the sun.
We do not turn back, as we are told,
not to see our emotions become statues of salt.
Life came with no fight nor surrender,
through open pores and nostrils,
stringent, and soft, and green,
taking the stretched fingers
as the warm summer wind may do
at certain hot dusks of wonder,
when we just sit and gaze
the hidden trail of the sun,
not thinking, not remembering, not whispering
how life may come and go.