I.

In the hour of not-quite blue

your long, lean, lithe form,

your back,

finally at rest,

next to me.

My hand finds

the soft, silent curve,

the indent of your waist,

and slides

gracefully

seeking its place

wrapped round your masculine pride

like an infant’s grasp

holding on

because

II.

You are not a guardian angel

but you protect me:

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A slipper in the sand

I sleep

I slip into

As each wave passes quietly beneath me.

An imprinting

Not unlike a mold.

Who poured mine?

A slipper in the sand

I sleep

I slip into

A musical drape of living liquid removing.

A mystery of millennia

Conducting flute and fiddle

Beneath my flesh.

The deeper I go the smaller I feel.

I slip in and

What w...

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In the ground I sit

Counting.

On the ground I stand

Humming.

In dreams 

I am full of hips that sway side to side

Full of my own soul

Full of my weeping

Full of knowing.

Someone tries to take a scalpel to my curves –

Chop them off

Surgically remove them -

Angry that I represent 

Gaia,

the living breathing Earth,

swaying and undulating unde...

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So quiet and peaceful

the snow

The monochrome light

shimmering on late

crystaline forms

The seasons

debate

argue

press their agendas

Winter does not wish to

awake

Spring fears

the responsibility of birth

The snow settles quietly

into nightfall.

Morning tells.

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I carry a music inside me –

It is a quiet wind that shows me

where I am.

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