There is a soft meadow golden
where there now stands oblivion
wild mustangs comb the hard
dry grasses after a long arid winter.


In the distance, wood smoke
from a silent fire that crackles
'neath a hungry touch.


An aubade's warm hand reaches
from the silky horizon to touch love
gently upon her shoulders and roam
the hills, and dusky valleys of the
paradisiac dawn, as it stretches each stone.


...and soothed; by palpebral stream;
each bend a lover's nape
endlessly explored by endless wait
to greet the welcome rise again.