A Piece Of Me

If I could reach across the river,
cold as December's hands I would
feel for ivory conversation,
churn it out like butter

thick like plates of cracking ice,
melting in the depths of moss,
crawling through the telephone line
to cast your words in pebble

vast frames that tighten their grip,
seeds planting around wrists.
My darling you cannot give up
fill in this wavering silence.

There will be hope in every slat,
they will continue to feed across,
to you I will look across distance
to kiss the freckles on your skin.