Blind Drawing

It is of wind, today, the drawing on the sand.

Neither do I see it, nor am I wrapped in what it brings
to the verge of this salt that the lips close
or to the hair untied in a dance, oblivious
to whispers traced by the sea.

Robes of a linen much too fine
and strands of pearls that the breasts roll
yet do not warm, sing of cold
and rip tenderheartedness in tiny ribbons
of colours fainter than the air
to then pervade the fluid nacre
in brief sobs that are also the laughter
of a scent that was balmy
when dream, yesterday, swept the dune
of granules percolated by some star.

I don’t even know to where my fingers run
if I’m not going anywhere within these lines
that the wind makes sinuous, in the manner of a form
nude, reclined and forgotten of itself
in antithesis of that impulse throbbing
a pliable essence, yet
never docile, in the passions or clefts
of flooding tide which, so often, it carved.

So, I stop, between the deliberate blindness and the drawing
that the wind, in a dash, unveils in my body
to promptly veil it, with the help of the sand
in the eloquent soul and in the foam
of another vision.

© 2005 Alexandra* ~ OneLight*® Authors & Creations