he couldn't remember now

when it first was that he saw her there

alongside nature's majesty

gazing out across the river and listening

to the sound of her cows eating grass and

the water's constant telling of tales long forgotten

before long she became a part of him

in his head, his heart and his hands

revealing this part of his imagination

where even he again believed in its magic

believed in the soul of himself left behind

until no longer could he create one or the other

the strength of her legs or the passion between them

yes, even she forgot her place once or twice

when the scent of flowers and his presence overtook her

a madness she had never known before

at night

while they were apart

in the silence of sleep

though they would have none

the dreams remained living these other lives

entangled on the meadows of an unfinished canvas

at the tip of his brush and the outline of her frame

where when light was gone she traced the places

the brush had drawn so very deep into the flesh of her

the canvas was complete

no more the long days of other worlds shared

of an unspoken understanding of color and light

away from the gaze of other crowded city eyes

where lilac skies and moutains remembered

the milkmaid who stood waiting for his (he) art

and her cows to be done by the stream for the day