Owl&Moon

He walks fast.

Head down hands deep in pocket, watching steps.

One. Two. Three.

He is always going somewhere, most often when his body is stilled.

He lives faster, but pauses under bloom of wine and rose’s, till the scent’s wear him like Sunday afternoon’s in a childhood home.

There is musicality in the snap of bent brown wheatgrass under foot. There is promise in shoots of new green reaching for sun.

He hums to the tune of that river babbling around rock and mud, beneath an upside down bridge; he feels all of it climbing through his soles, counts breaths, cherishes heartbeats.

And in hollow nights there is room enough to fill up empty places with sound and laughter, silence and listening. Church bells run the rim of waking, of slumber, the weight of his in-between and it is a gift.

When he speaks, it is cannon fire.

Shocks sparks across my vision and for a moment, I am suspended in primal knowledge. My ears bend, eyes flood.

Just. that. pure.

One more drop I did not know I thirsted for until his lips bore the fruit.

We have weathered 3 seasons, where a quickening plum plume bled over, at the dizzying contact chasing years of seclusion. Where love so exquisitely exploded, while it so beautifully punished.

And so we sleep…

A now. like. this.

Make’s tomorrow, just tomorrow.

Just now. Just here, in dream...

Ruffle of strong breast pushes out the warble’d pitch to fall over us. It usher’s a hush. It’s a wonder.

Nocturnal hunter in nooks high above ever watchful, tests of hunger between woman and creature; we are the same in this lucid dreamscape planet built in farmland and washed wavered in shades of grapes; amber, beige and scarlet’s…shaped within an evening and borne into the night where swimming pools are fat globes of glass; I fan out my fingers, stretch my arm’s wide, the tips of his almost kiss the tips of mine…we walk that way, poised for flight, eyes on the sky, blending into night’s whisper.

…I am an owl, he is the moon.

Majestic in silver waves laughing.

We hunt solace; find comfort in endurance, the gift of growing up, yet again.

And he weaves me stories in a single beam, in ancient heartbeat.

In silences.

In a crooked grin.

He sings out a melody in celestial notes every time his stunning thoughts flash. I eye the rise of land before us, and watch autumn turn, winter blanket, spring lend clarity after the ache, the bind, of ice. I glance back, and our foot prints are still there, if hidden for a time...and my fingers link with the glow, and I am soothed....

The cache of my deepest secrets, breathes easier with his touch woven through the whole of it. A healing thread that binds the blood and bone, love and hate; the cloth now warms in the knowing, stitched clean through his[my] soft acceptance...

…and there his wounds are the mirror that reflect my startling truth; he would break me in a 1000 ways, yet still, would be the calm to piece me whole again.

...Without the shock of him, I would never have known me.