The porcelain
wind of the
moon lifts
it’s wings
of mine
to see
the clouds,
deserts and
dreams of
reality as
one, the
endless
stories of
the green
and golden
fields of
painted
starlight,
the breath
of unspoken
songs in the
conversation
of eyes, too
aerial to be
held, as the
rising, gentle
wind through
the leaves,
and the hair
of lovers in
discovery
of forests
touched
with mist,
rising above
the mountains,
falling as the
song of rain,
they are
rain dancers
who see poetry
as all, and all
is water