In a nook between seasons, she sleeps in a brown haze only interrupted by flashes of red and oranges and occasional greens. She holds herself as if she were her own child, unaware of her need for touch. Somehow her arms, her voice soothed over the melody of time are always enough. Enough at least to find the will to blink and breath and dream.
She wishes she were a dancer, unafraid of the storm. In this dream, her fluid form matches the dance of the reds and the orange. In this dream, the wind is her lover, capturing the essence of desire that escapes from her hips as they ascend in triumph and descend in grace to the beat of the thunder. She becomes the merger of seasons, holding the celestial power of having multiple lovers. She is the introducer of birth and death, timeless and always perfectly timed. her arms become the mist of sad rains, her legs the mud of its tears. And in this dream the nook is not so small.
[Originally written on 10/13/2005]
No comments:
Post a Comment