Moonstones garden…
a sanctuary hidden
amid her white hills
~
Fresh from love’s spring
the wine I bring you
in a cup of poetry
~
In the soil of love
I will go on planting
poems for trees
even into my old age,
silently nurturing
what I am within.
~
Across the chasm
of a thousand years
I hear you whisper
in my dreams
and feel your touch
unfurl velvet
like a flower blooming
in my bloodstream.
~
You will not come
and I accept it,
alone weaving
your dark hair,
the silk of the night.
~
Around her
the air becomes physical,
the flesh of a poem
burning dark,
veils on eyes shed,
blinding, awakening all
to the truth of her skin.
~
She is a painting I can only touch with the brush of poetry.
~
Ses mains
blanches comme le matin
aux doigts fins
comme les branches
d’un cerisier fleuri
touchent mes yeux et voilà
l’aube de ma vie.
~
Ses mains
blanches comme le matin
aux doigts fins
comme les branches
d’un cerisier fleuri
touchent mes lèvres et voilà
le poème de ma vie.
~
Mon cœur
une fenêtre à l’aube
ébloui par ta lumière
~
Through the night
I rained into her,
soaking her,
and when dawn came
my poem was a moan
blooming on her lips,
luring the world
to come and drink.
~
She falls silent, and I wonder, where does all the noise of the world go?
She speaks, and I wonder, where does all the noise of the world go?
~
Her eyes are dark
yet a white jasmine
lives inside
~
In poetry
I confessed everything to you,
but my voice
in the morning fog
wandered
and was lost;
now with the eastern wind
it blows
somewhere along the hem
of dawn’s burning sky.
~
It happened at night
as the world slept,
the rain of longing fell
and left our skin soaked
in the ache of a dream
older than our memory.
~
I watched her
and she did not notice,
her hands lifting
to undo her hair that fell
in clusters of fragrant wings
that brushed my face,
rushed through my blood.
Rooted in Love 