Snowy ground
Lies untouched
Perfectly perfect
Made for us

Out the widow
Snow falls
Fire burning
Widows fog

Red nosed
In the house
Rosy cheeks
On the couch

Curled up
In a sweater
“How are you?”
“Never better,”

We carry our worlds within our hands

And communicate in time with our heartbeats

We can see the world from above and far away

Or the inside of ourselves in minute detail

Time can be tabled, abstract or meaningless

As we try to find our souls

We adapt to ever change

While love remains the same

There are no houses here
just hills with billabongs
sheep raiding pastures
each contained to its own
and the greeness of the valley
is submerged within my being
bearing the streams from the sun

There are trees smiling
attired in greeness and sheen
whilst others are withered
unbranched, unclothed, branded
each to its own paradise
unaware of the other’s existence
reserved in framed ponds

Thoughts to Cootamundra
where reasons are sacrificed
and the words muted are said
and each passageway is a memory
that reforms my tapestry
awaiting the hushed winter winds
at the heart of the autumn breeze

I want to be that girl for you
She said she loved the way I write

I want to slip into something comforable

She said I could take it off

I want to be that girl
Eve
       In the garden

She said she could tempt me
And she could

We ate the love
And covered up

She said the sin
                               was
Worth it