Free Verse # 415 (in the layers of poetry)

Her body is the place I come to when I long to remember, when I long to forget. Her body is the image at its fountainhead — the soul embodied.


The image of her hands
comes at night,
the burning wings
of a fluttering moth,
a candle’s breath


in the layers of poetry
the moonlight that once shun
on the shore as we kissed,
the frail scent of a basil
kissing your cheek at dawn.


Lovemaking is not unlike breadmaking, and when the bread rises there you have it.


The death
growing inside of me
shall one day blossom
and waft me like a sigh
over the sea of eternity


A te toucher je frissonne
comme les débuts du printemps,
comme un feu qui prend souffle
de l’intime corps de l’amour.


Silence descends
like a spring-shower;
in the openness I listen
to the voice of the One.


I’m disappearing in you again
like the tolling sound of a bell
in the fog of memories


Autumn night reading…
the birdsongs I follow
through the branches of words
always somehow lead
to a clearing in the forest
where I am one with you

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