The ringing summons my hope
and how tenderly I cradle
the vessel that holds your voice.
My fingertips trace its outlines,
gingerly seeking your pulse, your heat.
Whispers, profanities, sighs, silken words
all weave a mantle of your presence about me.
Each word, a shared intimacy
that only wants for the moist warmth
of your breath on my ear.
Gently, lest I disturb your presence,
I replace the handset
and permit myself one sigh
to thank God
for the miracle
that brings your voice to me.
— Tekla A. Syers resides in Chicago as a student and teacher of metaphysics; smitten grandmother; dabbler in culinary arts; semi-retired fund development and nonprofit management consultant; and a craftswoman. She enjoys music and art in myriad forms and makes time to observe and reflect on why folks and things are as they are.