There is just so much box packing that the human spirit can tolerate before it atrophies. Taking a very short break to reply to the dverse prompt this evening.
That look that has lasted so many years,
a flame that has flickered but always flared again,
fire-bright, deeper than desire
and the well of wishes where the moon swims;
water-borne with otter grace,
the torrent of a child’s first melancholy wail,
delicate swish-tailed fish become hefty bawling flesh;
a dream plucked from a shared vision,
two hands that reached into the tingling darkness
of a distant night and found the same star;
fields and trees, a breeze from the south,
red fox-flash and the silent setting of the sun.
All this magic fallen into my cupped hands
to tip into your keeping,
yours, mine, forever.