Revisionist Poetry – “Coin of Light” – Inner Contemplation, v.3

Her thought is a coin of light flipping in the air;
I see it tumble and settle on the curve of her face.
She sits—knee scabbed, thumb inked with blue—
and the ordinary becomes a small cathedral.

In that quiet the child returns:
a comet of laughter, a paper boat on the kitchen sink,
eyes like glass where new mornings catch and hold.
I find my hands learning a new language: light, hush, hold.

Love is not a flood but a tide — it draws near, recedes, returns —
it leaves salt on my skin and a steadying line in my chest.
I am neither master nor road; I am a map folded in my pocket,
a lamp I will carry when the weather turns.

She looks ahead — a horizon unpinned —
and I, lucky sentinel, watch her pluck seeds from the air:
possibilities sprout, small and stubborn as weeds.
I press this moment to my ribs and carry it home.