I was reminded of poetry this week. This was written some time ago. Until Then The story didn’t come tidy fully-fashioned for efficient consumption, It came in glimpses. The language of images captured or created then shared or withheld Like catching a minute shift in a jaw set by years of slights or noticing the fine hair on his forearm as it rested next to hers without thought. Even standing utterly transfixed by the light silhouetting trees at dawn changed with each blink. These were the moments that gave her pause— clues that raised questions of what was yet to come. Impending scenes of a flushed face and damp, auburn…