Blossoms of Saguaro

Before your hands
I were but state of substance,
molecules,
atoms,
thin cactus needles
carving the cellular core
that poured suffering
into the circulation of blood
(not yours)
and after the tenderness
in the blossoms on the top of Saguaro,
where I woke up
burning with fever,
swimming in sweat
and delirious
near the sun,
where you branded me
with sheer promises from one love,
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Winter Warmth

I love the holiday chaos in the kitchen,
the aroma of freshly baked bread
and green onions,
the melted butter, which flows down
and cures my wounded soul,
the bells of the hand mixer
dancing with the eggs,
the little fingers,
licking the cream from the bowls,
the flour
which snows snows snows
and your laughter, singing:
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