My heart, as a fool forever in love with love’s mercurial climate, does not beg for static coverage, or seasons to stop voicing their natural patterns, yet my heart, childlike in its prehistory, sometimes strives to alchemize the weather, to … Continue reading
It is hard to believe, but after years and years of clawing with bitten nails, and digging with torn palms, in the heart of a stone she found the babybluest wisps of cloud, soft nimbus music, to which she tendered … Continue reading
Sssshhh, gently now, gently, Love, the slippered guest, the tender trespasser, enters the house of wet leaves, softly, finger pressed to asking lips, no more questions, just this: the sound of rain, pealing, to bless storied thirst.
She, tender Sunday, wearing only beads of rain– her skin held the light.
At night, Rorschach wraiths, born of light’s role play with rain– Woman, wet, enclosed. (Photo by Anthony Distefano)
Mist leavening mood, Noir, by any other name– In rain, lovers prey. (Photo by Anthony Distefano)
Listen raptly to the furls of drizzle pecking upon thin glass, and you will come to know how close dreams are to trespassing rare intimacy upon closed worlds and distances.
your body, charged and opening, receives me in tenderest vein and history, recalling rain-faced flowers as petals glisten and bend.
Servicing joy’s turn, feet pray upon fertile ground– Grace, joined at the hip.
Roses near to grief, how petals kiss death softly, then fall, just because.
