Above, so Below

From twisting vines

hangs her bower

flowers and moss

make her bed and

adorn her hair

there

she rests

gleaming in the dark

warm skin enclosing

vast treasures.

First: a golden heart

soft, pulsing.

Second: blood of molten silver

shining in her veins.

Third: bones bronzed

alluring, unyielding

She calls down

from the high leafy branches

the name of her lover

but cannot descend.

her lover cannot climb.

Their voices

so much like the murmur

of birds in the darkness.

Who will come to lower

her bower? Who

comes to help her lover alight?

In the night their

voices mimic

wind rustling the trees,

cooing doves in nests obscured

wailing souls wandering

through willow groves under

streams of cold moonlight.

They silence in

the instant of recognition

visions vanishing like mists

swept off by a breeze.

Bend, high branches!

Lower, you slender vines!

Rise, O earth!

Love is no adynaton

while creation still

responds to desperate calls

woman to companion.

(I have no idea when I wrote this. Best guess, 2012)

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