A Distant Hand

The woman who plucks
the strings of my heart
Bears mourning in her voice
and the joys of poignant memories.
Time and distance fall away;
we are a dream, an unfinished song,
while the yet untamed heart
gallops the backroads dreaming over and over;
of the trace of her fingers
on my cheek or ear,
the thought of a distant hand,
lost in the depths of forgetfulness.
I pause now
to touch and remember
Those feelings, those fleeting memories
I still covet,
Not because she is so passionate,
or sweet smelling,
But because - I don't know why.
Must I understand?
She brought into my life
a nearly sacred, unplaceable scent,
As if she were borne
from another time.
With her my weary heart returned
from far-flung lands,
Where it had lain
sweating with an all-consuming fever,
Emotions delivered through a soul-wrenching
that threatened to tear it asunder.
Not only did she touch me,
or did my heart touch hers,
They were so close, so entwined
the combination became part of my being,
Alive within me
so that they lived
Half of my life
and will die half of my death.