touch can be remembered
like the wicked
taste of swiss chocolate
or the cloyingly sweet scent
of sugar cookies baking

but a single touch remembered
is what, makes me want to
clutch the thought
without going in reverse

skid for a few blocks giddy
fly over hay barns and finger
lakes, dive into iced over streams
run in mud puddles, keeping

gabrielle’s horn
heard
at lunchtime,

your touching
me
underneath
an oak tree

in a sage green meadow
as we interlace in a spiral
dance–palms do know how
to touch in minstral song

copyright © Kate Lamberg all rights reserved
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