The child will see what a man won’t believe/ Like fog on hills, emptiness rolls on me/ Empty cups can spring forth plentiful fruit/ And Spring won’t deny Summer’s pressing boot.

I picture your hair falling like drapes/ Warm color splashed on green couch/ Paris emerges through the balcony door/ With accordion notes landing on the floor/ We danced in all sorts of geometrical shapes.

Back alley weddings; moments trapped in time/ Conversations wrapped up in telephone lines/ We look to escape these gift wrap bindings/ You look to help through the mind’s unwinding/ But the mind isn’t a puzzle or a cold locked door/ It is not alien to the body, not less or more.

Pardon my brevity/ I’m in short form tonight/ I’m quite short of breath/ Eyes quite short of sight/ I’m a really short man I think you will find/ Who’s wearing short shorts? I say “I’m”.

There we are by the lake wrapped in a blanket pre-dawn display lovers waiting on night’s covers to fold away slowly, relenting to the sunrise and her legion of gold and orange and red holy men carrying promises of another day, another chance, another way to show my love to you. Your eyes are dark but have always been so bright to me. Your hair like ravens fall over shoulders like water to the sea. Your lips apart, spilling smoky breath, warm loving odor into the cold morning’s running winds. I hold you tight in arms you might one day forever awake into, always to find comfort into. Fall into me; I am solid because of you. Your hands are craftsmen building beautiful things, love shooting from tips of fingers like fireworks or fountains. Her ears hide under a cap of wool, peeking out just enough to hear all the ripples of waves, snow falling from trees, me breathing in and out like blood from this heart in my chest; light as down, drowned in light, pressed to her back just south of her spine which sticks it’s tongues out in playful naked moments at my shy schoolboy chest; blush red. Her legs folded under like legs of a card table, but this love is no game (no sir!), it’s the moment the truth the closeness we, two, can feel but can’t think without spilling. The sacred cup in my hands has skin, warm and cold. Tiny hairs brush against my cheek. She turns and we watch our lids blinking slowly and the soul that falls somewhere between. As the sun pierces Horizon, our reflection is lost on the lake and we are taken somewhere our own and flowers dance around our head in a beautiful halo. We become that ancient “one” before Zeus had split us, Vonnegut’s “duprass”. Nothing external lit us. Revolving around like a double helix, we kiss not with lips, but with one shared moment on the lake in the morning, freezing, blanketed, witnessing miracles pass through us and we are children eternal.

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