A finger tracing, a mind remembering
their night before, that held radiant stars,
both near and far. Internal beats

did rise and blend with the changing hues
that began fireside then singed the crisp page

of a golden day. A passion that did pulse and vibrate
beyond their bare and salty skin – reaching other worlds,

it did extend.

Her tracing meditation paused when she felt his stare.
On her love, with chest bare, her eyes did gaze,

and on him her eyes remained. The solo butterfly

that fluttered from her core, now thousands
fluttering around him and the rolling shore,

where he stood tall, like Khrysos,
bathing in golden splendor,
flooding her in rapture.

I caught up on some reading this week, finishing a book I bought in Oregon several months ago, titled, My Lost Poets – A Life in Poetry, by Philip Levine. Levine was an American Poet…