~
She is not our shrine,
she prays differently
with eyes wide open,
fingers on votive offerings,
preferring her solitude
in the Tea Garden, drinking light

Tomorrow on the tarmac
one flowered suitcase,
stamped for the city of neon people,
will travel to her song,
the pilgrimage of anemic lovers

Her hoisting from water,
(ampullae in hand),
and the unique boutique
growing out of
an alabaster chamber
bring monks out of hiding

The center line of her,
where the flower blooms forth
and learns by observation,
is still an unvisited temple

Until in season of calligraphy,
when she releases the Kogai
from her hair and sits with friendly toes
outstretched in the warm intimacy of
shared water
~

In between the sal trees
glistens the river in October light
inviting in the rustling of leaves
to kiss her gently breaking ripples.

She hastes down the rocky *****
impatient as the river gets close
giggling in the dream when her toes
embrace the chill of the late autumn.

The catkins on the other side
swayed vigorously to be with her
spreading with the wind their pollens
in a mad desire to touch her skin.

This October morn she was carefree
floating amid hijal, fig and velvet apple trees
with winds from the river on her sail.

I only watched the fairytale.

Golden sun and molten chocolate
under a tree
full of birds singing
babies swinging and slipping
an old man sleeping
in dreamy reverie.

I took the second right
and right before me
emerged the paradise.

They pecked my cheeks
the children unescorted
wind spreading soft on my skin
their rose tinted saliva.

I pushed a swing
and her giggles
filled the air with mist.

She soared
and when almost
her feet touched the sky
came down upon the grass.

I took the second right
and there wasn't a park,
only dusty grills
with a rusted lock.

The rosy lips
were still whispering
on my cheeks.