the lid of night lifts up and off.
Years of peekaboo mornings played out,
each a belly thrill – a wordless delight
at that bright face rising east
out of the cobalt pause, where my last dream left.
How many more
days are mine to wake to these limbs? rickety, twisted by ways wandered
and winds braced,
a dancer’s poise somehow still holding.
Perhaps not many more
will be mine in this spot on the hill, this sanctuary, ever greening,
where I go to sleep,
wait for you to come, and wake me
in blazes of passion pink.
No matter how many, how few.
Those gold and fuschia blooms – or (as sometimes) smoke grey plumes, wound me
so well round and into this forest, to its stone bone floor.
Such bindings, their promises
can’t be undone.