By the Verge of a Poem (With Reflected Poets)

I’m wandering along the verge of a poem
as warm as a dance and as pulpous and round
behind the blueness of its long lines
as a handful of cherries, out of season
and yet, strangely unobjectionable
as fruits of words hanging from trees
above the time of this stream.

I smile at a poet
sitting by the roundness and the juice
with feet immersed in the vivid colours
that the blueness evades
but the poet does not return the smile
and actually frowns
I wonder if in concentration
or quite simply because he broods
over the warmth of the dance
which feels like stillness around his toes
as it streams away.

So, I stop and stand
by the verge of the poem
and take the poet by the hand;
”Let’s run through airs of plentitude, silly!”
flows my urgent whisper,
”and let me feed you round words
that you will write in ripples of lines hanging
from trees above the time
of this silence that streams
about you!”

Then
there is a sudden shudder
a clear shudder of the ground
along the poem; a splash of light
falls from one of the trees
and the cherries burst within my lips
as they press warmth and sweetness
to the cheek of the poet
stirring the beginning of a smile
by the verge of the frown
in ripples of a reflected dance.

I wake up in the still blueness of linen sheets
and stretch the vivid colours of this dream
into long lines of laughter
along the morning. It is when
I glance to my side that all becomes eloquently clear:

A poet, in essence warm of corporeal consciousness
casts a dance of pulpous musings
by the verge of my lips. From his eyes fall, in fruits
of every season and all time, senses and sense ripened
and yet, strangely forming within kernels bearing
impending blossoms of further fruits to be;
At me he smiles, his cheek inviting my surprised awareness
to the contours of a sweet hint of a recent kiss.

”Wake up to airs of plentitude, silly!”
flows his tender breath,
”and let us write round words in ripples of lines immersed
in this poem that drifts about us!
I wonder, however…” and he slightly frowns as,
to my amazement, he goes on,
”why would you be frowning at me when, in my own dream,
I urged you to stop brooding at that silence
reflected in blue stillness about your toes
and invited you to run through the colours
blooming by the verge!”

Then, as we finally grasp the wholeness of the poem
wandering in our close plentitude, his frown and mine dissolve;
A widening smile merges the dance reflected, now fully awake
and bursts into laughing lines and round, vivid words
that we write at last…
again.

© 2005 Alexandra* ~ OneLight*® Authors & Creations