That Sort of THing

The space between your look
And the words written in your notebook
(the green spiralbound the color of spring and newlove)
Made my heart pause, and then go bounding away
Over the hills,
Fears breaking like ice melting like birds nesting like fresh butter and windy runs, like your hands.
Large hands, capable of blacking both my eyes and my heart. Be careful where you place those hands, because
I might just leap over and take one with me
down to the daffodils and riverwater,
and
I don’t
think you’re wearing quite
the right
shoes
for that sort of thing.