The Bell

Emerald lea
flecked with golden
   scarab daisies,
d o t t e d violet and
brush-stroked cerulean.
     My creation
        the canvas, my own.
 
Oaks whisper and hush
speaking of cyclones
   of calm
and of poppies at dusk.
 
Lightly I step
making no din
but for the murmur
    grasses
beneath the nakedness
of my feet.
 
A path of countless lives
our two plaited
 (between flesh and flesh)
compels me on
    to where you wait
      still--
       a place where no one else
can invade and arise.
 
A fingertip's dance
across my open mouth
lips parted    
        silence
              full plum ripe - all in silence
but for the cadence|
urgent
       vibrant
               pounding
within the nakedness
of my heart.
 
On we flew through glades no coursers knew
beyond the watermelon moon.
    and we ring
in frequencies specific, 
   a bell;
the vibrancy of which is never stilled
   and leaves me
        awaked
           spinning in the spot
      where long ago
 I should have come to rest.

 © 1998

*This poem was a collaboration with B.Gleed*