what aroma finer than prayer

When I think
of the words that rush, unformed, inside this head;

when I hold
too tightly, a child at the Fair, to thoughts
precarious as red balloons edging upwards toward an October sky;

when the air pops and sizzles,
the Sturm und Drang of a thousand schoolchildren making room for dreams
of the air,
of the flight of each tiny helicopter,
of the shape of the hands I love,
of a doorstep beckoning,
of a coming home--

There is no question.
I am unfinished, in Love.