who can look at the sun at dawn or at dusk and not feel it’s fire in your core or sink your naked feet in cool loam it’s tingling vibration, as you become one with the she that is Her; oh, the song of cicada’s stirs sensuous longing; their slow rhythmic moan to crescendoing climax to breathless release…’sigh’…how indeed the cacophony of spring birdsong at dawn, their frenetic trill tweets are passion’s love song how could wild things be bedeviled as wrong from the rush, ebb and flowing of waterways deep to shallow streams bubbling, the brute power of steam, the way wind-tossed leaves sound like tempest-swelled seas while the stars and the moon watch us drift off to dream, to sleep, souls to keep holy, holy, wild is the rawness of green not sterile stone chapels with steel phallic spires but darkness, musk hollows, mountains and fire, how sacred is She, how wet with desire the earth and the sky and a soft cooling breeze can transport one to heaven on earth…
come with me
we’ll tip whistling kettle to cup, watch the crushed tea leaves bleed you’ll tell me your tales, and i’ll tell you mine too, while we sip from our cups in this wild sacred place, just us two
Just musings..no prompt or challenge save the magnificence surrounding me. Some poetry is best just because. 😊
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