A finger tracing, a mind remembering
their night before, that held radiant stars,
both near and far. Internal beats
did rise and blend with the changing hues
that began fireside then singed the crisp page
of a golden day. A passion that did pulse and vibrate
beyond their bare and salty skin – reaching other worlds,
it did extend.
Her tracing mediation paused when she felt his stare.
On her love, with chest bare, her eyes did gaze,
and on him her eyes remained. The solo butterfly
that fluttered from her core, now thousands
fluttering around him and the rolling shore,
where he stood tall, like Khrysos,
bathing in golden splendor,
flooding her in rapture.
I caught up on some reading this week, finishing a book I bought in Oregon several months ago, titled, My Lost Poets – A Life in Poetry, by Philip Levine. Levine was an American Poet…
View original post 217 more words