Warm rolling waves up over roots recumbent,
Comes all blanketing an ardent flooding.
Aloft in your sudden gracious tropics,
A newly epiphytic orchid am I.
White-hot, free-flowing showy,
A fluttering moth living on air,
Finally full. Igniting dust motes
Reflective flashing in moonlight,
Bathing through cracked panes
And smeared through sashes.
Deep from the dreaming,
The time of horses half-remembered,
Cashmeres plush kissing
and Sandalwood burning,
Smudging mists singing . . .
The mahogany grooved spindles
Of the four poster surrounding
And girding the rise.
Swinging on the rope bridge
Inside, pale and tenuous,
Finally catching fast
On to you at last . . .
The other side.
August 2007
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ReplyDeleteLittle Glass Pen
ReplyDeleteThis post was brought to mind by the Orchid Series now appearing at Little Glass Pen (click preceding link).
ReplyDeletei find i have to read you, go away, and then come back. you are barely here in this post, and yet you are as sure as scent. there seems great wisdom in this kind of being, both acceptance and allowance, as though those two were surely distinct things.
ReplyDeletesensual. ummmm.
xo
erin
i find i have to read you, go away, and then come back. you are barely here in this post, and yet you are as sure as scent. there seems great wisdom in this kind of being, both acceptance and allowance, as though those two were surely distinct things.
ReplyDeletesensual. ummmm.
xo
erin
So, I'll try to cheat the blogoverse and post this comment thusly
The perfume of this is close to the sort of musk of the mind aroused by psychedelic mushrooms: a blooming which overwhelms and raptures. "... An ardent flooding" to "the other side." More more. -Brendan
ReplyDelete