Each mortal thing does one thing and the same: Deals out that being indoors each one dwells; Selves - goes itself; myself it speaks and spells, Crying "What I do is me: for that I came." ~G.M. Hopkins
Friday, September 22, 2006
moth
upon my finger
your wings
etched
by charcoal's fragile lines
paint so tenderly
soft night’s air
in waves of
flawless silence
you an impish gift
sent from smitten twilight
for his beloved moon
you delicately taste
my tea and honeyed fingers
wash your tiny face
and taste again
your profound ebony eyes
affirm me
in prismic layers
we, together
exist
in midnight’s garden
eavesdropping on
parceled harmonies from
unseen lovers
you, refreshed
take wing
into your lovers’ darkness
your silent flight
disappearing into
the garden's symphonies
and I
wordlessly
breathe in
night's perfumes
ponder
our brimming moon
with empathic eyes
hear
the lover's songs
with knees under my chin
and I
know faith
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