She travels so far.
With no star to follow, she threads the space between us.
But oh to hear the Sound! It welcomes us both again as old friends.
Looking out, it is quiet now, dark and deep and cold, with a grey memory.
But then every color bursts out of the morning, unexpectedly, like a parade down the corridors of an old library.
The miles behind us evaporate like illusions of water on the road.
We move as purposefully as blood rushing through the veins of their twin hearts.
And I am compelled to look ahead, for she tells me that the future belongs to us.
We are still. Proceeding.
An ever-green imagination in the middle of nowhere.
Until we wind up a precarious way.
Intruding upon three wise men.
Huddled together, they bear us gifts. And in the sand we light fire to our dreams.
Taken by the wind, two stars of royal beauty.
Now the miles call us back. So we mount our faithful stallion. Eastward leaning.
Please guide us to thy perfect light.
He hears the seagulls calling from the balcony
The violet hues have replaced the darkness before the dawn
The softest creek from the door and the metal latch finds its home
Footsteps down the stairs; or it is something else now that moves beyond his sight?
Did the waves wash over you completely? Are you alone on the eroding shore?
That he would come to it at last...but the tide has turned, the morning moon
crescent in his eyes, where her light lingers as if a far off star
A long blink. A memory. A ghost.
She lets go of hundreds of thoughts simultaneously as he whispers. He seduces her as the wind, without words. Combing through every strand of her body, the fibers of her being yearn to slip off her like a silk nightgown to the floor. Without conscious thought, just the rhythmic universality of this dance with the passing stranger. Until she is bare. Her body still on the cold, hard ground. Dreaming of the fall.
it's what we do with these violent days
our passions we carry
fight for us give guidance
that renders us Phoenix or dead duck.
the alchemy of corporeal combustion, the spirit of the air sustaining our parachute lungs
can either fan the flame or extinguish all experience
in a gust. it's up to us, stars and ashes
and you and i
are all the same, what thou lovest well remains, the rest is dross.
if we see ashes only
at the end of each candle's calendar
we will not live bright lives for burning is Being
an evanescing glow
refining and reducing
to rarefy for flight
only in the using up
do lesser shadow selves
die in the presence of
the dross-less bird
of ever brand-new light
-Lindy Bohlmann (5-16-2012)