Golden

Two steps down to enter,
20 degrees cooler in this maple-tree'd bower
. . . not allowed in very often
the scent hits you first of youth's promise and compromise
Circling golden
Twin blonde beds draped in chenille white & pillow quilt-tufted
Beige on beige on beige on
Golden coolness
Maybelline abandoned alongside silvered brushes, mirrors turning
Ghosts pressing in
Lark cigarette smoke
Reflecting the light from windows of a kodachromed spring
Vanity encouraged with tendered ivory elegance
Presence strong as tabu, time & tan lines
Circling golden
Circling
Circling

Home

Étaín

I read the words of poets 

placing their black upon white 

scrapping and clawing into existence awareness honed and winged 

fighting for the shadowed lands and quartered secrets 

truth hanging …

hope carving petals into the tilled soil of this day 

this night where everything strives for a measure of brilliance 

a 

pause 

amongst meteors and moons 

to know with every turn two songs play and a story runs river-wild as the owl takes a left to Venus swallowing this night 

these winged words black upon moon white

maybe ....

Maybe we learned it a long time ago
like the art of the curve
or how to love slow 

maybe we traveled to far, distant shores

orient express or carriage with four

enfolding our hands, pledging our lives

as we walked across time

our paths intertwined

...maybe we fought on Cullodens red fields

striving for freedom our bodies to yield

maybe we struggled against wind on the plains

carving out promise regardless of rain

maybe we played countless days on a river

climbing trees, catching fish

you an arrow

i the quiver;

one holding fast

the other to fly

reunited as all else we love blindly dies

then under piercing stars and a full harvest moon

some ancient page was turned 

maybe this time--love is found in the burn

maybe we've always played our parts too well

navigating back to waiting arms somehow

reaching for the other with every circle of the moon

scarred, bruised & bleeding

love waited in the wound

maybe this time, it's not about the bond--

the truth and the strength of what we know

maybe this time

grace

is

in the

letting

go