His hand was only a hand
With veins that rose and fell
Like gently rolling waves
A dip and a swell
Giving life to all within
Beneath the water and his skin.
His brush was only a brush
With bristles short and soft
Like freshly growing grass
Subject to the windy wafts
Of springtime growing new
Filling in the lines he drew.
His eye was only an eye
With so much more behind
Like the shade of green
That bends and winds
Beneath the skin inside her wrist
Deeper still before a kiss.
His art was only art
With confines of space and wood
Like the forest she explored
In the freedom of childhood
Filled with shadows and light
An expanse of elation and fright.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2026
Tag: Love Poem
Poem: We Walked Through Snow and Ice
People are complicated. They’re rarely what we first believe, and they’re almost always carrying a weight we cannot see. We tend to notice what others are willing or able to show us, and we assign meaning from there.
Strength, in particular, is easy to misread. Sometimes it’s resilience. Sometimes it’s concealment. Often it’s both.
We move through the world interpreting one another through our own mixture of experience, education, memory, and fear. It is remarkable that we connect at all. And yet, we do.
We walked along in the snow and ice
And you wanted to hold my hand.
I thought you wanted to show yourself strong,
But you were losing your footing too,
And needed my steadiness to help you along.
I refused you because I did not need your help,
I did not fear a fall,
And then you fell all on your own.
I wondered
If I could have helped.
We walked along a sandy shore
And you wanted to hold an umbrella up to the sun.
I thought you worried my skin would burn,
But yours was turning red,
You forgot your hat and needed the cover.
I refused you because I did not need your help,
My skin is olive in tone,
And then your skin turned hot.
I wondered
If I should have helped.
We walked along in wind and rain
And you wanted to lead me into shelter.
I thought you wanted to hold me close,
But beads of sweat gathered around your head,
And fever took your strength and made you ill.
I refused you because I did not need your help,
For me, the rain is a thrill,
And then you lay for days in your bed.
I wondered
Why I did not help.
We walked along inside my dreams
And you wanted to plot out the way.
I thought you wanted to boast in your sense of direction,
But the path grew long and the day turned to night,
So we lost one another under the stars.
I refused your course because I did not need your help,
For me, wandering without plan is adventure,
But then I lost you and you were gone.
I wondered
If I should have let you lead.
We walked away, I went this way, you went that,
And you did not turn to watch me go.
I thought you wanted to stay,
But the distance grew wide
And the time grew long.
I refused to feel because I could not feel it all,
My heart was broken in your hands,
But when I felt it all at once
I turned,
And you were gone.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2025
Sonnet: The Final Chamber
In all your quiet ways my spirit wakes,
Like dawn that steals through shutters, soft and slow.
Oft have I wondered how your presence makes
Veil’d parts of me take courage yet to grow.
Each day my hushed and inward-seeking mind
Yields when your voice through shaded mem'ry moves.
O’er every folded fear your light I find,
Undoing shadows with the truth it proves.
You are the innermost of all my days,
The final form within my layered soul.
No ornament, nor craft of human praise,
Could name the warmth by which you make me whole.
So stand I now, my guarded heart undone,
For in your gaze a thousand worlds are one.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2025
Poem: Undone
One layer at a time he peeled me
Like an onion
His hands wrapped around my outer skin
From top to bottom he found my flesh
And I made him cry
Like water
Running down the side of rock
In a cascade of drops becoming
A river below
Into which we jumped
His tears breaking our fall.
One page at a time he turned me
Like a book
His hands against the leather
Bound around my story, all my words
Unspoken and broken
He read and knew and studied
Like art
Smeared across a canvas
With descriptions written below
Telling of the image
Sitting still and wanting
To be known.
One note at a time he sang me
Like a song
Released from the beak of a bird
Whose daily life is filled
With music because music is
Like emotion
Strong and loud when the air is enough
And slow and soft
When there is tenderness in the touch
A balance of adagio and
A quickening of the pulse.
One sip at a time he drank me
Like wine
Held inside a carafe
Until the day my breath met his
At the edge of a glass
And stained our mouths with red
Like a flower
Vibrant with color and life
Not pulled but watered instead
By attentive hands
That understand
Petals cut or plucked
Are already dying.
Whatever the measures by which he moves
Whatever the story he tells
Whatever the words he says or unzips
I am undone
And his.
© Jill Szoo Wilson
Poem: Love and Alive
Every day he comes and goes
Like a beggar on the street,
With no way to turn
But the direction from which he came.
If the streets were carpeted—
Soft to the touch—
The tread of his soles would
Scratch holes through the path
He has
Worn.
Worn out, the man with the
Briefcase breathes heavily
Under the sun and
Under the moon,
Inhaling and
Exhaling as he travels,
Blind as he goes—
Not because he has no head,
But because he feels no pain
Or joy.
He is numb.
Numb since the day she
Walked away,
And numb when he remembers
The way
Her hips sway—
This way and that.
And numb when he
Thinks of her name but cannot
Say it—
Silent.
Silently, the bird in his soul—
The bird whose name is
Alive—
Perches at the edge of her
Cage whose name is
Life,
And wishes for the day
She might once again
Begin
To
Fly.
Flying in the air
Above the man
Is a bird whose name is
Love.
He flies up high and
Then he dips
And twirls,
Like the tail of a kite giggling
In the wind,
Awaiting the moment when
The Man
Opens his coat and
Sits on his bench
And sleeps—
Like a beggar on the street
Dreaming.
Dreaming of her face—
The only face that is
Trapped inside the Man's soul.
Love watches with a keen and
Clever eye.
In one moment—
A moment whose approach is slow,
Whose arrival is timed
By the gods,
Whose watches are synchronized
To the beating of
Bird and human hearts—
The vigilant bird
Sees
The coat fall open,
Sees
The Man sit down on his bench,
Sees
Him close his eyes and
Seizes his
Freedom.
“Freedom does not live in the sky,”
He sings.
“Freedom lives inside Alive.”
Love drifts down
Through blue and through clouds
And alights
With bars between himself and
Her—
The one who holds his
Heart
Inside of her,
Inside a cage.
The one who
Knew he would
Come.
“Come to me every day,”
She wanted to say.
But instead, she said,
“You must not waste the time
Waiting by my side,
When all the world
Sprawls before your gaze.”
Love ruffled his feathers
And looked into her eyes.
“Until you are here with
Me—
Just you and me—
I will come and sit with you
Every day.”
Every day, Love came,
Just as he said he would,
And the earth turned slowly
From summer
To autumn
To winter
To spring.
Their stories grew, and
The details they knew
Poured through the bars
Like drops of water
Flowing
From watering cans,
Growing their love,
Growing him and growing
Her.
Her days inside,
Her will to survive—
Alive and Love
Together traveled through,
Until the day
The Man stepped anew
Off his carpet of same,
Tattered and
Worn through by
His shoes—
First one and then two—
Onto a path where four
Could move:
His loafers and
Her high heels of
Blue.
Blue turned to joy,
Joy turned to alive,
And Alive for the first time
Flew.
The Man let her fly,
As his heart said
Goodbye to the
Pain that was keeping
Alive inside the cage,
Inside his
Soul.
Souls in the air,
Free with
Togetherness,
No longer bound
But soaring high,
Strengthened by
The time in the cage
And by flying
Side
By
Side.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2025
Jill Szoo Wilson 