Within the nook of a dell,
a good distance
from obloquy
and inhibition,
floating on water,
listening to birdsong
descend down
the stream
of a musical scale.
Don’t need to believe
or even consent to
any critique,
any look-see,
you are free and light
on the surface,
buoyant and supple
beneath.

Languid movements,
reminiscent
of a weir,
cascade
and trickle,
springing forth
to orchestrate an overture.
This feeling is
beatific,
euphoric,
the moment one of
nonpareil,
bijou,
objet d’art,
and these transports
are yours only
to involuntarily
succumb to and relive:

Rhythmic waves
quivering
upon your shore,
as your limbs and spine camber.
It’s no wonder
you often lift
your voice in song.

Nature gives
It takes
You remind me
Of the nurturing
Arms of the breeze
It took my breath away
But gave you a stride
In the cold winter
Under the stare
Often brushing the trees cold and bare

There is no warmth
When I wish you the best
There is no cold touch
Of your eyes

The air between us
Has passed