Bridge Builder

by Gordon Mason

A snell wind chips
its words into my head
like a stonemason.
If I build a bridge

to the warm scarf
of your arms,
the sky can blow out
and we shall stand

on the edge of space.
Mountains on the moon
will segment in orange
and in their thousand folds

our truths will lie.
We will gaze on a future
sketched in turquoise seas.
Like a prodigal boat

we will moor in a cove
known only to us
and I can die
quiet in your wrap.