These poems I write are birds I send away over mountains and fields, through white clouds and over distant seas, so that, one dawn of day, they might return and tap at my window, fill my heart with their song having seen your beautiful face.
As I hold my pen her skin under my fingers stretches into a landscape, each word I write spins a little vortex, a turning Sufi, a small flower, all spreading across her skin, spreading like a fire, dripping into her soul and coursing deep down, filling her with more love than she can understand, with unbearable gentleness opening her wide, opening her to God, opening her to the sky.
One by one I kiss the flowers of her skin, then look into her eyes.
We do not know each other yet the poem has always connected us; in a world of change this poetry ebbing and flowing between our hearts is the only constant, carrying secret messages between our souls.
You and me we’ve always had this conversation, wordless and mystical, formless and flowing with pure essence; without beginning or end we’ve always been wrapped around each other, and this pain that wounds our souls is the evidence of the place where we enter each other.
Now, in silence, I send you this word to travel on the wind and find your lips.
Everything begins as I utter your name, yet it is a name that cannot be pronounced as it is not made of letters – it is an inner name, one that dwells inside the prayer, the music, the art, it is an inner vessel, to utter it is to feel an opening in the heart too immense to contain, a sky and a sea blooming inside.
Like wine in a cellar this art of touching her is something that has brewed for a lifetime within me; now and then it comes out as poetry, now and then when it cannot be contained and its flashes flood through my veins and its wave carries me to the wood where we always met in the deepest recesses of my memory.
I remember to come back to the future where we are and I complete the circle as I write to you know this love that is within me.
The phrases of the book like twigs twist and turn in every direction, and soon I am walking a thick forest with no thought of return, to find a cabin in a sunlit clearing and live in it for a while.
But the book ends as every journey must, yet, leaving its forest, I carry it with me, feeling its sap of words flowing through my veins, and growing, silently, for many months and years new leaves of meaning.