That urge…
Restless waking,
walking and walking…
My hand
reaches
again and again…
Palm open,
grasping,
retreating
to cool green stone…
I am motionless as
the bitter herb
from shaved ice
lingers
on my tongue,
while person
after person
passes…
Unfamiliar faces
young and old
like ants
intent,
following unseen highways…
That urge remains
as does
green cool stone,
gateways
beneath my hands and feet
to places unknown…
©Lea Goode-Harris, Ph.D.
August 15, 2003