After the Rain (I.P.)
A blackberry sky lifts to blueberry blue,
and in the valley of his thighs – sweat glistens.
He and I, soporifically sated, choose
our separate ways, in this labyrinth of dreams,
where peignoirs of sun-streaked mist
rise, on this hollyhock morning.
Entwined, we lie, in his grey-leafed garden;
a bee drinks from a yellow cone-flower
and he to me, is like welcome desert rain
brings to life my barren land with flame trees,
and gifts the starlings the spring-song
of linnets – sing like trees, blossoming.
So sound he sleeps... his breath falls, soft,
on my cheek, as breezes calm a broiling sea
into which I gladly sink, for paradise is there
in my drowning. A shard of light through the pines
shimmers – liquid lightening, and I bask in this ...
the eye of a perfect storm.