A Touch of Woodland Time

ZOYA GREGORY

 In the vastness,

where time loosens

and the world opens its doors,

buried feelings rise

like spring water from dark earth.

Through the ridges and valleys of this life

we have come to one another,

and in that finding

there is a quiet joy

the body remembers

before the mind can speak.

I am no longer lost

in the maze of my own mind.

Beside you,

the old loneliness gives way,

and something in me awakes—

not innocent,

not perfect,

not unscarred,

but willing again

to be undone by light,

undone by love.

Cheek to cheek,

we move through meadows

and along the edges of streams.

I tuck sunlight

into your midnight dreams,

and for a little while

the day grows gentler around us.

Side by side,

we lift our faces

to the auroras,

their green fire wavering above us.

I kiss you slowly,

with intention,

as if each kiss

were a prayer laid

upon mortal skin.

We know

we are given only

a touch of woodland time—

brief as mist between the pines,

fading like warmth

left in the palm

after a hand has been held.

Flesh falters.

Blood cools.

One day

even your hand

will loosen from mine.

Perhaps that is why

I hold each caress so carefully,

as if love burns brightest

where it cannot remain.

The hour passes.

The light withdraws.

What we cherish most

is always passing through us.

And still—

or because of this—

I love you more fiercely,

more tenderly,

as though the heart,

knowing what the body cannot keep,

must answer

by opening all the way.

At twilight,

when the air turns blue

and the first stars appear,

we wander hand in hand

without needing to speak.

The path rises before us,

and still we go on,

drawn by that quiet knowing

that has followed us

through more than one lifetime.

If our hearts cannot speak,

what then shall we say?

What words could bear

this nearness,

this sorrow folded

inside every blessing,

this strange mercy

of being flesh and blood

and still daring

to love what will not remain?

Perhaps nothing.

Perhaps language fails

where the soul has already knelt.

Let us not ask

for foolish perfection.

Perhaps it is enough

that your hand finds mine

while there is still warmth in it.

Under silvered nights,

beneath Alhambra’s glow,

our hearts recover

their old rhythm,

as though they have known this music

long before this hour

and are only now remembering

what it asks of us.

Above us,

the stars continue

their patient shining.

Below them,

we stay close,

listening to each other breathe,

grateful for the small miracle

of being here together.

If there is a promise,

it lives here:

not that time will spare us,

not that the body will keep us,

but that love returns

to the breakable world

and asks again

to be trusted.

With every heartbeat,

it begins again.

It is still

your hand in mine—

brief,

mortal,

trembling,

and dearer for that.

Omniverse Traveler