For Scott

His left hemisphere speaks through actions

instead of his mouth, magic full, as if words 

were betrayals; they fail to carry their secrets.

His thoughts pull fingers closed around her wrist,

the nape of her neck, any skin that softens bone.

There is something enigmatic about movement

born out of affection, communion—intention-full,

something that offers itself up to reading

because minds want to discover meaning;

what else is as inspiring as that which breathes?

Somehow, he has always known this:

words veil their wellspring; a touch stirs it.

The body bodies out its own expression, 

showing itself by wrapping communication around 

what it wants to hold—a hand tells what it knows;

a look betrays itself and draws up the cloak

of appearance to unmask what it beholds.

He writes in time, dancing across the scroll

that unravels itself in the physical as something

warm, authentic, living—with her—spirit, full.