How can it be, that in autumn’s death

I still hear so much of her breathing?

of life. of longing. of nightingales inlaid with weeping.

I feel caught in a vice of my own sensation

I know her chill and I fear it.

but when golden bright enfolds dead leaves

I can feel the warmth in their loving.

and I love it, too.

…

When I go outside and sit,

and am faced with such exquisiteness,

I laugh and sing and think of how,

I could ever let darkness in.

I’m the mote of dust, that Earth breathes in, and out

what a crime to call us separate!

…

Played upon the light-flung slopes,

like fingers cascading; trickling sunlight as water across cobblestones.

People dancing upon the heights - golden and dragonflies

blessed wingbeats caress the cheek of the moon and

you see yourself reflected in the many-hued columns

of what you know you’ll find, inside.

…

Sitting,

Waiting,

      I try and let the silence in.

Coursing through my veins and heart,

A melody of whispered wind.

I open up and feel it’s fingers

The worlds subtle, loving touch.

…

I sit alone, in the moment before

the wave crashes.

In the place between places,

Caught in the little death

Between inhale and exhale.

I’m whole, safe in the ocean’s breathing

- cradled.

Blues, in the white of her eyes.

…

Circumspect whispers blowing from on high.

They are plain, prophetic,

even less than a breeze, they play across my eyelids turning skin into dust.

Into whirlwinds, carried on the beats, and breath of wings.

They sing, they sigh and they float within my iris.

…

I return to the orange grove-

the one that I was born in so many times before

I exist in never-ending stasis

because nobody told me when to start

seeing the world through rose colored eyelids

I am the teeth that rip myself apart.

…