These fireflies move like diamonds in our little sky,
I open up your fingers,
and, in the palm of your hand,
I find a heaven.
Sometimes I think there is nothing
that will keep me from running away.
Sometimes I want to crawl inside of you.
Sitting cross-legged in the yellow porchlight,
you seem to encase all my dreams.
Kissing your hand: finger, finger, finger, finger, thumb.
I can see your ancestors' tin-type faces
in your fresh smile.
I could hang on you like Spanish moss on a Cypress,
but I'd rather sing you like a jazz suite.