Come to me on my deathbed,
ask me if you’re too late,
I’ll look at you and smile,
kiss you with my last breath.
~
From the nooks of her neck
my poem draws its breath,
a bird inhaling
the expanse of the sky.
~
Forest deep,
with pine needles
inking the moonlight
into her skin,
rivers gushing womb deep,
poems like moans rolling
white unto my lips.
~
I love her with the violence
of stars being born,
with the softness of moonlight
sipped in the cup of dawn.
~
Opening
the gates of fire,
against your breasts
the soft press
of poetry,
two flowering moons
shaking full of mead.
Rooted in Love 