In the park I write:
I wonder if the trees ever feel such longing...
Do they wait achingly in the night for the warmth of the sun?
Do they dream in promises of green?
Emerald, jade, olive, sage, chartreuse....
A life full of color.
The right words chosen,
A destiny written.
There we lay.
Sleepless under shooting stars,
Awaiting slips of light in dark places,
A morning back-lit from the perspective of pines,
This is what Loblollies dream of.
Streams of sunlight aglow,
Aflame and pulsing.
Warm hands and soft lips,
A vessel lit from within.
I imagine to be loved by you
Swallowing throatfuls of the
Deep chilled celestial blue sea.
Well earned after long quests,
Lead by intuition and determination,
A thirst satiated only by glacial drippings.
The taste - astonishing.
A future rising and swelling,
Like a lunar luring.
The inevitable pull of the tide.
Emerson once said, "When it is dark enough, you can see the stars."
But I see them regardless of the night.
Sometimes even in the morning
Across your skin,
Spilled past your shoulders and
Woven through your finger tips.
I can taste them.
Like a galaxy hidden on your tongue.
As if the universe spilled through your lips,
As if you were the mirror to all things.
As if you were the mirror to me.
Me, this soft thing.
A woman of blessed dark waters,
A developed taste for blackberry jam,
Darker chocolate and deep wooded paths.
I am drawn to you.
If you were the flame
I would blow past the moonlit moths and be the oxygen that ignites you,
That lights you further.
If you were the moon,
I would be the stars.
You lighting the endless stories
I've meticulously strewn across the world.
We would write them.
Glitter this fallen sky in
A map of our creation.
These words would be first,
Drops of light amongst the inky night.
The comets you've dreamed of,
So melodically converted into these words,
I've written here.