Inside the Moment

When I write poetry, I breathe funny,
sniffing now and then
at words emerging unbidden,
for I am not young and sure,
but time-worn, dubious, fretful,
also scared
about everything;
however, so is he,
an old man sitting in his La-Z-Boy,
delicate as dew on grass,
watching me,
his eyes isolated from the rest.

His smile, a tug of grace,
soul's flame on his lips
to signal the unhurried code between us,
deciphered in his interior.
Our text, a never-fading spring,
emerald lawn fainting underfoot,
gentle wisteria with amethyst blooms,
bathing in the drizzle,
branches jousting in the wind,
wild flowers dusty with yellow pollen
bursting in waves.

Delighted with this rainbow,
my soul lights up all the candles in the sky,
and I smile back,
rising
through a dizzying spiral,
blinking into glittering light,
hearing only heartbeats,
betting on both the evens and the odds,
and winning,
inside a moment's lingering silence.