We come to a point in this playful haven
where furry wings ride the breeze
and breathe against our skin.
Would that we could let them in!
And everything is cleaner here,
and smells like lavender and linen.
Trees and parts of trees
are swimming into view,
the whole of nature imbued with generosity,
saluting you and me,
and the yous and mes that came before.
There’s a shore resting just to the left,
bereft of worldly cares.
Fingers of waves run themselves
through the sand’s head of hair.
I like the dress you’re wearing,
the way it reveals just the right amount
of breast so that I go crazy imagining
the rest of your body.
My imagination has been
in such a shoddy state lately
that it’s nice to give it room to move,
to spread out and stretch.
It’s like catching the first satisfying rays
of Spring time sun in a glass,
and before you know it,
the season has passed,
but you’ve got your bottled reminder
to keep your spirit warm
when winter finally kicks in the door
and commences making an ass
out of itself in a flurry of vulgar words.
Winter is no season for little birds like us.
Our features are too delicate,
we prefer our landscapes intricate,
and our skies, benevolent.
This is the prevalent impression
of the last few days. We sway
to the fluid melodies of grace and faith.
Traces of transient sadness remains,
but only traces, traces almost too minute
to even be worth mentioning.
These traces are still extensions
of ourselves, and therefore must be kept,
not in the foreground necessarily,
but in the darker recesses
of our hearts and minds, and of course,
we can find them again at our leisure,
but why would we want to?
What I want is this moment now,
including the moments which preceded it
and those which came after;
the currents of your laughter
sweeping me up and away,
the lazy haze of your smile
piling all around, and this soft
and luscious ground where
the two of us can lay.