lasting beauty is the suspired, odorous spring like the winged brook..
Redolent
moon bath
evaporates
force from my skin
Rejuvenated
closed eyes
bubbly beam suspired.
I linger beyond
the rigid dormitories
where wise, winter diplomats
speculate over my weaknesses
and vernal rites
(as if I have no rights).
Still I can hear the arguments
staged as soliloquies
by ancient wooden tongues
and even though I bow,
a humble green sprig,
a burden on their branch,
I cannot translate the chatter
of knotted knuckles
and settling sap.
I know their eyes eavesdrop
upon my Sinai
and bear witness to my streams
of misunderstood whispers
as if they might interpret my lexis
of suspired scrolls;
those vanishing ellipses
that curl from lips and condense
into youth's defiant veil
that can’t be rent by reasoning
I’ve never experienced.
If I close my eyes will I find meaning
in this cusp of Spring,
in their incessant dialogue
of dried arms signing
strange arborous proverbs?
December susurrations mingle
in this lissome isthmus
and our wispy Vespers,
these suspired planets
gossip along misty vistas
of silvery insinuations
and hushed hints.
The fractured lisps
of elusive revelations
curl in the breeze,
a gypsy veil
between shivering lips
in the cusp
of our trysting breaths.
Ascending daystars converse
in this lexis of secrets
and draw us a scroll to Venus
with each breathless ellipsis
between whispers.
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