Wearing only wind and
the polished memories of
a sun wilting too quickly
in the trees,
we discover the pond.
Two splashes.
A laugh.
We scramble leaf-cluttered sky
into marble,
shatter birdsong into music
that soars past a
hundred wings.
Don't breathe,
my heart cries,
just live on this perfection
and the dark odyssey of
your tongue,
reducing me to a huntress
and the hunted.
I'll leave my body,
my soul shouts, if I can
have yours for a moment,
under this water
like the jade of some
spirit temple:
too soft for mortals,
too mortal for gods.
Floating in and out of each
other's souls . . .
above:
complete and unblemished sky,
flat and close enough to
write on.
We trade hearts and skin and
feel we have found Truth
and a type of joy that believes
in nothing but itself
in the frothy-sweet fragrance
tap-dancing across
our water,
there in our green and
immortal and unquestioning
universe.
Growing darkness
chiseling a new sky
from a denser infinity.
Crumbling granite,
one gypsy star.
On solid ground we listen
to chattering hearts and
watch the lights go on in a
kingdom we want to be
a part of.
Wheel of moon,
torn and star-drunk.
Soon she will spill her
glistening soul and
encase the ground
in Lucite . . .
her love
and our love:
our blanket through
the night.
Patricia Joan Jones
To read more of my work go to: My Poetry List This poem received the International Award for Excellence and Beauty at The Golden Quills Poetry forum, and was chosen Becca's Best at Galadrial's Respite. Nominated for the Net Poetry and Arts Competition.