Aloft
in the mystic garden
wet from the river soak
I witness your persona
fading backward
          to soft
shedding its
white sleeves
in favor of what
our reverie believes
          when you walked
          into a coffee shop.
          
          

Every memory
piercing the
brightness
we hold inside.
Olden brightness
          a sacred tide
untouchable
except by us
          washed of sin
the only two who know
the bareness that
          cold pulls in.
          
          

In your delirium
you speak truths
you may not otherwise.
Your tongue eased by a
          wearied
          unfettered mind
for which you apologize.
          
          

Only I won’t take what you say
with a grain of salt
for I love this prose
when from your lips
opening like a rose
          it drips.
Through years you sift
to find your essence
in remembrance
your imaginal world
          a gift.
          
          

This whimsy of word
          is my fate
the language I speak
the only verse
I’ve heard.
It is how I navigate
through the heartache
          I curse
into the beauty
          I seek.
           
         

A Siren I swim
in the swell
          of your waters.
Your words go through me
splendid secrets
          you tell.
In the shimmer of moonlight
we are not ready to see
the beauteous reflection
          of what could be.
          
          

Your words go by:
          a river
          I can’t touch twice
though I try.
Swish my hands in the rushes
          to catch them
so quickly they flee.
          
          

Ill-fated endeavor of trust!
As if searching
for a single thread
          of saffron
after a thousand have
been tilled
          into dust.

          
          
_______
(c) 2013