What language speaks with the winter wind and drags its feet to furrow the snow? Will it capture my face and ferry it skyward until the sun breaks through like light through a prism reducing my love to its essential colors? Night thickens from grey to black. Rain pools in the street. Shadows pool in the alley. In a dream my hands find a body thick as a blossom swelling to open its petals in the night knowing what it needs remains unnamed but still there, as certain and transparent as a body can make it. The wind might know. Or the larks. Or the crows that steal our secrets and hide them in the desert caves of desire.
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It’s a great poem but the last line is killer, “Or the crows that steal our secrets
and hide them in the desert caves of desire”.
I find myself pondering the poetic parallels you draw between the subtle transformations occurring in the natural world and those within our own hearts and souls.