And still, even now, there are shivers.
Shivers from the precision of you,
that arrow in your quiver, bound and delivered
to the Mariana Trench, where at the deepest cut,
you see yourself mirrored in a swirl of stardust,
in blind snailfishes alive to themselves
in some foreign, watery cove.
How I adore you, my see-through love.
Above, I hear you whisper to me in that Conch I found at Land’s End,
but I’ll never pretend to understand you.
I’d rather be forever under your spells:
Of surprise.
Of sunrises and ocean swells,
Of lips to ears, of bells to peals.
I’d rather be rendered speechless by all that you convey,
under the sway of all that made you.
Single golden berry of sap and skin,
Of water and kin, of sea and salt.
A default setting set by the land,
Set by firmament and the underworld,
Everywhere, everyone
wonders what you are.
My tiny globe, so in demand,
Yellow globe made of light and sand,
cousin of the chanterelle, lover of the daffodil,
sister to the crocus, brother to the tide,
I like how you migrate across strange lands,
Looking for places and human hands,
Who will invite the golden-skinned chameleon out of you.
You occupy the same interior spaces as octopi.
As Joni’s holy wine, as Prine’s sweet chablis.
Sometimes dry and white as a bone in the night desert.
Sometimes white flower-scented summer day sweat on a corset.
You are nights around a fire by the ocean.
You are, my see through love, my dreamy starfish potion.
When I drink you, you are home again.
So much wonder, truth and appreciation in your prose.