Free Verse # 288 (he touched her heart)

The crescent moon I pluck
and with it comb her hair
into a forest of stars,
massage her body
into an intricate flow
of honey and milk,
a fervent white wine.


My mouth in hers
longs to speak
the language
of a lightning-storm
caressing the earth,
or that of a jasmine
dropping her shadowed breath
like a dewdrop
into the moon’s white pond.


As the rush
of pheromones in spring
your breath surrounds me,
honing me like a flame
rising to the sky.


In her dark hair
night raged
like a black flower,
its pollen a sea of stars.


Breezes playing
in the open field…
his hands on her skin


He touched her heart
and her words fell
like leaves of autumn.
She offered him her silence,
his heartbeats and poems
on that altar he burned
transposing into her
the depth of his being,
his memory and all that in him
laid unborn, waiting.

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