This Cleaving has no Number
It has been such a long time, love.
Such a road that weaves its magic
into this song now, love.
I remember the newness of skin
we melted in that first sublime embrace,
you with your sweet youth in ardor
and I withered by this passionís door
you opened with some magic
that glanced and feathered toward me
from the blue of your blue gaze.
I played into your soul
a rhythm born from sagacity
and travail of heart.
I played it and you fell into a depth
I didnít know.
Was it so many nights that I
cannot count which starry or mooned,
cannot count the times my back has warmed
by your sweet chest that heaved in slumber
and sent me sweetly to dream in safe
and delirious familiarity.
You, who freed me with your cageless door,
have met me with a blessed timeless grace
that keeps the wings for opening
and joys in the flight to watch.
We have both danced around winging
our lovely song with living
and the years have fallen thus
across the meandering mix of spirit two,
as if our twirling was held by forces
from a plan already known.
Can it be so long, love?
This cleaving has no number
for the counting is too precious
and we are still ongoing in dance.
†In the dew of little things,
the heart finds its morning
and is refreshed.
[This message has been edited by Martie (edited 01-19-2000).]