I see the open door,
come two, come four,
the dry dirt holds its tender cover
where petals all color and blushful
dot the floor.
Thatched with muscle from the pine,
I pull the plug on holding back
and cuddle up within me, a tree so high
my sky is colored green,
and under me a bed too soft to lay my head
is for dancing instead.
(Dare I ignite the muffled laughter
of the critters all scurry run beneath me?
After all, I’m standing on their pine needle rafters.)
One after another day, should I weep,
as the fabric not tatted falls around my feet?
No downpour from this leak
can awaken youth;
yet, I see another truth.
Ardor in blood is born
and I am torn; each piece must consider
how the wind sweeps the needle’s path
onto a canvas without brush or paint,
knowing that nothing lasts….
or does it?
Something wild and wet in loving
can be made fertile again by mulching;
so, to faint upon a ground so considerate
merits knowing who held the wand
that wonder made it
and also tracked the lines across my face
and with one finger found the fragile lace.
[This message has been edited by Martie (04-16-2007 05:27 PM).]