Oh, yeah, by the way, rereading Gaudy Night typically has one other effect on me:
Our hands are clasped together, fingers interlaced,
A unit, melded, both held, neither seized,
We let go briefly, step apart, rejoin in lonely haste,
Each finger finds its place again with ease.
My hand knows the feel of yours by heart,
(If hands can have a heart, though yours hold mine)
My hand fits into yours as though the two would never part,
Yet after time apart, the fit’s aligned.
It’s odd that they should fit so well, so different in size,
Though weathered much alike by wind and years.
This fit, honed over time, is now become a thing to prize,
A thing to cherish, as the end of our first decade nears.
Our lives’ fit has been mirrored by our hands;
Shaped so by love, seared with each others’ brands.
Harriet’s is much better, though.
Posted by dichroic at June 26, 2001 01:31 PM