an umpteenth poem...'nails'

Behind the house there is a high field

Surrounded by pine trees

Marching all the way down the valley;

The only clear space

Where you can see in every direction.

On a grey afternoon

We laced our walking boots

And went up there,

The eager March wind blowing in our hair.

You know I’ve never been one for holding hands

But you took mine all the same,

And rubbed the calluses on my palms with your thumbs.

And with every gust

You would dig in your nails,

And squeeze,

And dig in your nails

Harder and harder every time.

It was only later that night,

When I awoke, turned over on my side

Heard you weeping,

And felt with my fingertips

Your puffy cheeks wet with warm tears

Did I begin to understand what you’d been trying to tell me.