When I look
beyond the dusty brush
and see a red branch shining
through a meadow of green,
or stumble upon a path
of tulips bending through
a rush of water, or struck
by an orange moon that must have wings
it flew so close–
like a spring spilling over
a terrace of rocks, I drift to you.
From beneath
the spit and drizzled sky
violet sea waves
froth and spray,
sandbars emerge along-shore
where a field of flowers tinsel
in the dusk like a cave of glowing worms,
and everything of beauty in this world,
I am yours.
Now, pay attention.
There’s something you must know:
If one day
you shy from the wind
that breathes our own language,
and fail to believe that words
no longer belong to you and I,
I swear
in every city there is water
I’ll drift along somewhere new.
But,
if each hour
each day
you love me as carefully as
time is measured,
hold me like you trapped the moon,
scoop the heat between us up in an
hour glass for you and I to feed on
and then swallow it whole, I will too.
Let the fire swim in your blood.
If you store it, I will too.
Our bones will burn together.
If you bare it, I will too.
Published January 11, 2015 by Women Around Town
Britt DiGiacomo 