But for the almighty roar even Ocean would lay low;

      without reflection of Sun dancing diamonds, plain old grey.

But we weave the strand

      together you and I squeeze your hand the tighter.

This day one hard wood bench feels just for us

hopeful pigeons assess us, for all the world like badly stuffed toys

      without the magic of wings lifting them high.

Before their brethren poised in flight, for them,

      our moving together makes all of a kiss.