Her Lips: A Saturday Poem

Her Lips

She was the first person who loved me that did not
bother me. Before ever meeting her lips, my own
existed to do just that. To touch hers.
Not so much kiss, per se. But to touch.

But in touching, a dictionary opened,
and an aged Oxonion, smiling, dipped his pen in ink.
Smiling, he revised a former statement.
It had said, “to touch with the lips as a sign of love.”

He stroked this out and looked at a wall.
On that wall a scene of an afternoon picnic unfurled.
Barley waving, aspens whispering, a robin hopping,
and a step from a cliff. On his page, with conviction,
he wrote – “undefinable”.

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2009