Droplets Slide Down the Pine and Land Upon the Grass Within a Slow Dance

for May Ziadeh

Timelines wind and curl beyond
the edges of my paper
and I wonder which songs 
your lips had sung.
Had Satie’s piano notes
swung so often
through your room 
and after a time, your own fingertips 
upon the piano?
Your voice is not audible
but so close upon me. 
You might have known
a certain set of hills
you’d rush up and sweetly reach 
for the reddest strawberry
and years gone awry, had you bridged the gap
between the grass and the upward lift
to meet a true kiss? You sat 
between your pair of pines; I look within
my own through the glass.
I imagine you’d tilted your face
when you heard someone you loved speak
and they’d seen you’d heard them.
Do you hear me?
I won’t draw you too near,
but I’d wished I’d known your tears then
to write pages that would shake them
into tears of being loved so well, 
and I recall that touch of appreciation
without the defined shape or coolness of hands
before I knew you well. Did you draw me in?
I don't need to know; I would’ve come anyway:
I kiss each page for you 
beneath the gleam of your smile
as you lean down toward me,
my tears landing safely in your hands.

This Ring

(a ghazal)

Which shape ring do you think you would choose?
Would you hear my call for you, my cue and choose?

Would you pause a moment to listen and ask me,
If I know it is you whom I choose?

I know the shapes and colors and hues you might name would be many.
And yet do I know the coolest blue of you whom I choose?

It feels safe for me to fall back within your shade.
I’ll fall asleep and rest within it, this cool blue you could not choose.

I’ll awaken and warm the silence that enwraps the blue within you.
I'll fill your sadness with my poems and patient silences, for you whom I choose.

I might wish to find you the perfect scarf to go along with that ring.
It could be long, fitted, or flowing—a shade of blue I do choose.

Your lips are the color of the quietest roses which are the most beautiful.
They’re brightly-painted sometimes, too and every hue of which I’d choose.

That brightness will not flash in and flash out and stun the eyes.
You are the rose who remains—I might place a rose hue upon your face, too, if you choose.

The green leaves that sprung up and burned away collected at our feet; I've loved them.
Dying or just born, I gather them: poems, paintings, roses—anything you choose.

I may not paint myself within a great portrait of my own.
I find myself so often unspoken, my love not repeated—but in everything I do, I choose.

I may lift my cup and drink my water and know nothing of the silkiness that's within the cup.
You may suddenly lift me up and kiss me and I'll save everything we do, I choose.

The water I drink is fresh and cool and I'll pour another glass for you.
You may surprise me with a warmer hue of blue and blush to follow, if it is you who I choose.

I may laugh for you, but I like your laugh even more. 
Silent and open tonight is my door, if you do so choose…

Within your name, I hear the ring of my own.
Come inside, you know it is you whom I choose!

Jade Nicole Beals is a writer, painter, and yoga teacher living in Massachusetts. She graduated magna cum laude from Brooklyn College where she earned her degree in English Literature. Jade is the author of two books of poetry, Moonflower and A Little Honey Sweetens The Flame. She blogs at jadenicolebeals.com.