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Arterial
Ashened groves
Mantles of gold and cathedrals of pines: my Elysium.
Swift of foot on mud grass, in gloaming are the twin lights of a high sierra.
The moondance of lambs is a shepherd’s prayer; monsoons crayoned the lunar celebrations and the threshing of harvest.
The pastel reflections in the valleys of giants; the coral castle of bright angels; the crashing sea of water fairies; the amber fields of star-crossed lovers: in the arctic mornings, over the isles, the seasons weaved the celeste tapestries and pillows in the sky.
Babbling brooks serenade the lithe aspens of glimmering meadows.
Behold the summit of Avalon; atop astral canyons are we, taller than the Alps and evergreens and pyramids.
We are but fugitives, dancers in the grace of the wild, skipping stones in the silver streams of flowing azure.
As larks we rise; as treefolks we shield the temporality of our woodlands.
One heart, homeward bound, lovers moved through the fair; they picked thyme and cosmos and iris and clover.
Naked, they planted seeds amid thistles and thorns.
Auroral glaciers were their parting glass; desiccate sands writhed in poignance.
In the blackness of my love’s hair is a golden thread, akin to the lantern of a gravedigger in somber nights of despair.
Her lips chant unto me the gospels of maturation.
Her bosom murmurs unto me the fondness of many mothers.
Her hands calligraph unto me the pride of many fathers.
Her legs etch in me the line of finitude.
Upon your gaze am I a man; in your intimacy am I carnal.
Beloved, aid my sight in this nebula: beyond the winter wheat is the arterial to the ashened groves of yesteryear.
