If writing poetry is getting lost in a forest of words,
you are the path with dancing fairy lights tempting
the edges of my darkness…
                                       
                                              …I set myself down in the sun,
the world bursting into reds, yellows, softest lavender,
golden-bathed garden, familiar seat of summer’s past…

                                                                                                 …but I watched
the poem, the one I’d intended—evaporating as quickly as it’d come,
lifting like last night’s rain, fading in the unexpected appearance
of your primrose path…

                                        …I stood.  I followed…
                                                                   
                                                                            …daylight (and intentions) fell
to the sickle-sword of moonlight waxing in your energy, the golden-brown
flash of otherworldly fireflies in your eyes, the world, one moment bright
and humid, eclipsing, bird and insect song releasing the ghost of moments
past, dying to quiescence, light of your eyes dancing amid freckles,
nutmeg and cinnamon against the cream, the current, the lines
of your legs, flowing
from the garden
now opening.

                           I descended into that darkness…
                           and the seasons twisted on my tongue. 

                                                                                                   Summer was a record
running backwards, the night trembling, the melody skipping against the dark,
concentric circles of our elicit interaction, scratching a separate song,
filling a separate place,
a secret space
in the forests
of our minds…                         

                        …and my body, aligned with your body, hidden
                           from the eyes of the day, from the noise of all
                           that had been…

                                                     …released itself to the bubble
                                                        reality we sang

                                                        into existence.