You get to live through me
In the morning I awaken
To the rhythm of raindrops
On the window,
The tension of your kiss
Contained within each drop.
That watery staccato on glass
Drowns within the sound of sighs
As our bodies match that rhythm.
The melancholy of morning rain
Replaced by scudding moments of pleasure.
© 2019 Regina J McMurray All Rights Reserved
The morning is a dense black-grey immensity
The trees are vague darkenss
Darker than the predawn
Only the crickets dare stir
Even they are subtle
Afraid to yet wake the sun
The silhouettes slowly un-merge
And horse-shapes start to pad across the grass
Tree-shapes un-blur and diverge from greyness
Heat of coffee subsides alongside darkness
As the sky unveils it's lavender-grey dawn
Layer by layer, pink to vanilla, ochre to fuschia
To the Perfect Morning Blue
I freeze into the scent of a flower
Even the hummingbird stops to observe.
The sails of a dragonfly flap nearby
Lumbering for lift like a Chinese junk rig
Squared black wings, chalked white body
Drawing my gaze away from the stilled bird
Yet the perfume won't let me free
I am beckoned to the next flower
As Melusine sang to beguiled sailors.
I want to marry a motorcycle, and have a love affair with a Jeep.
I want to curse the cliff I climb, and fall into the embrace of a belay.
I want to moan of the pain in my legs, as I course the mountain trek.
I want to kiss ridges of the deep, and die in the passion of rising air bubbles.
I want to pedal harder, as the wind caresses my skin.
I want to run slow and long, as the horizon beckons me on.
I want the wind and the ocean and the mountains to break my heart wide open.
As she walked into the room
Feet gliding over wood
I can feel the coolness of the boards
I scent the whiff of stale air
Windows unopened for long periods
As her skirt brushes by the bookcase
I feel the breeze of it on my skin
And then the cozy roughness of rug
While kneeling on fuzzy carpet ensconcing a small table
Words rush out of her mind
Splashing page after page
I feel the ink smear onto my palm, sticky
Another blow-breeze flutters my hair
As she places her writing-book to the side
And then as her thoughts continue
Circular about the room, roving with her eyes
I can see them, too
Curling cursives in the air
As she seeks the next formulation of emotion
And that blow-breeze of emotion
Flows right through me
And the air becomes still again as the windows close
And the thoughts stop
And the writing ends
The heat of creation departs
And once again, the wood floor is cool,
The cardboard smell of emptiness returns
The rooms is closed
And my mind moves on to its next task
Though it feels stale and darkened in this room.