In a winter rain,

a walk...through fields towards the woods.

Looking up, catching drops on my tongue,
trading tears of mourning for raindrops in blue eyes.

Looking down...
there, at the edge of wood, sleeping deer.

I tried to lay with them, quietly approaching,

pretending one was the fawn I see when I read you.

They awoke...and ran.
Ran into the undergrowth.

I stepped further into the edge of wood,
beneath a canopy of winter oak and maple.
I stopped and sat on winter leaf...leathery, moist,
leaning back against the rough bark of tree.

In sudden sound of voice...I listened...
hard, intently...to the faint incarnation
of something transformed, a pulse, a whisper.

I heard the breath of deer...

weave me within your circle
the sound of 'never before heard',

share the grief within a smile
and tell me your story.

I will lose this furrowed brow,
and trade my grief for a mossy seat

and rest these feet for a while.

On the worst of nights,
I've plucked feathers
from the wings of angels,

quietly, with the ignorance
of my disbelief,
to see if they would fit,
glueless, stitchless,
soft with the sheen of satin,
looking for some manner of
brilliance in the dark.

But it is always the same...postured,
cloaked in the nakedness of emotion,
I build a little prison instead...I'm safe.

I pace,
four forward, four back,
four forward, four back,
waiting...worrying...

just when will that angel return
in request of it's feathers,

I polish them, I preen them.

On the best of nights,
I am by your side...
there is the scent of your hair,
my face is close to yours,
to touch cheek and listen to
you breathe...watching the rise
and fall of breast with each breath,
feeling a pulse course through your neck
to reach places that were not intended for me,
but that I dream of anyway.

I do not think of angel feathers,
but of the travel across the map of your soul,
your spirit, the heartbeat that has the sound
of music...an ancient instrument of creation.

To touch what was once pain, and fly upon it's pleasure.

The smooth white bark of birch,
naked in winter dress with arms
reaching tangled and aglow in the
light of a December moon, widened
my eyes to until they were no more
than slim halos of blue.

I thought I saw you, there among the
shadows, a velvet sheen of flowing and
feminine design outlined against the
rivers edge...

were you there...a siren dancing in
Aeolian song, the voice of a thousand
ships in helpless want of desires questing,

or a gypsy perhaps, the moon showing
your outline of form, fringed skirt and guild
in golden trinkets that rang and sang like
small musicians in the adornment of your joy.

I am in silent admiration.
I am in the throes of compassion.

Take me with you, if only in dream...
deep into the mist,

let me dance among the birch
with you...
a single shadow in following,
a flute playing the voice of a bird.

And yes, I'll show my true face,
for just a glimpse of yours.

You told me once
of how you loved to hear my words,
of how they put you at ease, and took
you places that only the imagination was
free to travel...I smiled at you then...

and as I walk back towards the house,
towards where I could see you again,
slumber embracing your each breath,
I thought of words to say...words to bring
your heart closer to mine.

I awoke before you,
and sat and watched the
innocence of your flesh sleeping...
still a smile lay across your face
as you surely dreampt, your eyes
moving behind their closed vision.

Being awake before you was new, unusual,
sleeping next to you I was in a field of poppies,
an opiate of my dreams, and as I walked
on this morning I smiled as I saw you sleeping,
still and peaceful in my thoughts.

I had quietly gotten up, dressed
and walked the short distance
from the house to the woodlands,
looking for that perfect branch
of thorn-less rose, wild and fragrant.

The morning was like dawn had
given up its breath just for me,
and I, in my search, felt a calm
that was rare in its beauty, quiet
and leading me on as though it knew
exactly what is was that I was there for...

that perfect branch of rose.

White, with yellow center that
a thousand tiny pollen hunters must
surely had drank from, so sweet
and inviting in its color and form,
scented, like sunrise on a pure summer day.

As I returned, knocking the soil of
woodland path from my boots,
I entered and slowly approaching, you
whispered my name, a voice that had become
my morning...a voice that wove love into
its words.

In secret silence, I entered the room and
sat next to you, you smiled then...

behind my back a branch of wild rose.
You sat up, touched my face, looking
deeply into the shadow of blues that
were my eyes, and I took my hand and
drew my fingers through the strands and
folds of your lazy hair...you sighed...

Laying down my woodland treasure,
I picked up your brush and slowly...
one hundred strokes, I teased the tangles
from its thickness. I did this every morning...
brushing the silken threads until they were
ready to receive the braid...an act of love that
now I could do with my eyes closed.

This morning though...I wove into it's beauty
a branch of wild rose...

You did not know,

but each flower was spaced just so, that
from within every other twist of the braid
sprung forth a blossom...and each time you
passed by me that day...oh the sweetness
of spring and summer passed by me with you...
I will never forget the wonder upon your face,
as I smiled,
with each passing.

our love was like this...