Sometimes
mild, as would be milk flowing
from the breasts of a moon
(if the moon had breasts)
that has just given birth
but has not yet severed the umbilical cord
and placidly cradles
in one arm the slumbering night
and, in the other, the barely awakening day.

Sometimes
wild, as would be the climax
of love made
between the flooding tide and a rocky shore
- eruptive of foam that refracts the sun
when it gushes from the wind
and ignites splashes of fire upon the varied horizons
of an afternoon in the sky.

Sometimes
nothing more than a grain of dust…
or, in a mist still ambiguous
what could or not be a hint of dew
and thus, that dazzling dot which agglutinates
water, aflame, and lava, cooling down…
or a sarcasm in post-viral syndrome
still sneezing hazards of rebellion in sharp splinters…
and sometimes
rather unpretentiously
a very flexible blade of grass, totally docile
under the velvety nudge of a tenderness
more innocent than a foal’s.

Other times
yet
merely a face, between two warm hands
and a smile
wandering, for a moment, between awe and rapture
very close to the verge of finding all this vein
silly
and almost ripe in the biting lust of a bunch of Muscat grapes…
but then, overflowing its own imagery
of lips fashioned as a chalice
of rare nectar
for the thirst of gods, also imagined
- and purely decanting, drop by drop
the languid sweetness
of a poem
into a kiss… for you!

© 2006 Alexandra* ~ OneLight*®