Tell me, what is it
Which moves me,
If I were a photographer, I’d picture
The grasses and trees
Scenting the pitch night air,
Hair blown in eyes, nose, mouth,
Arms out and up,
Catching sticky, humid air,
Asking for a way to feel
Which does not lead to heart, chest, body
Joy, Grace, Relief (truly, relief),
I have no pictures.
Only words, which reach to half
Of a moment which has happened
More than once.