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)
This. Stunning.
Wow.
xx Dee