The palisades of warm weather
rise like a flock of sheep
from the high forest range,
the shepherds are frail wisps
of breath clambering down
the crags of disheveled clouds.
Rivers shimmer their diamond
sheathes in the new sun,
I don't see their blades.
Birds roost on the eaves
of grassy knolls & stones peep
with a sleepy eye; who knows
what lies above?
The irreverent world feels
young & ready again, round
still with the tender fat
of long rain's sludge.
There's a fragile forgetting
in the sky & a febrile
remembering in the earth.
It is as a dream.
This new earth is fragrant
with fresh designs, contours
ripe with water, sketches
of water faint in the fey sky,
the sun is almost white.
The air is thick with that want
—fornication & the body odour
of desire. This is a time
of tactile wonder,
the immersion of bone in rock,
flesh with soil, hair in trees,
laughter in water. It is you
baptized with life still dewy,
milk white; you want to wake up
today & touch your fingers
to your lips, my lips,
any soft thing. & I promise,
on the doorstep, the hibiscus
pouts her red glossy lips
as she dresses before the green
mirror of am old puddle,
waiting for the dance you once
promised. You must wake up.
Image gotten from Twitter. I can't find the artist now.