The worn grips where I held you tightly,
through foul winds or gentle breezes;
the subtle change in color there, pleases –
where hills become valleys resting in those old wraps.

Every scratch, no matter the size,
when I carried you impatiently from place to place,
or tangled with you imperfectly at my own disgrace,
are hints at the strength beneath your skin.

The dirt that hides in strange corners,
the oil, the grease, the wires, the gears,
sometimes too much, or too little are my fears,
that the care I can give you is not enough.

The way the two of us consort,
inspiring the earth to move, the wind to blow,
and in that ambiance becoming only the now I know;
free, finally, from times attempt to capture me –

Soft words whispered to eyes keen enough to listen.