In Gratitude for the Many Yous


You #1.

Oh you, one who whispered the secrets of the world into my sinews,
you who paddled me around the deep waters, cleaning cobwebs and leading the way.
You, mermaid of the sea, adventurer of tropical breezes;
teaching me to sail with my heart by the light of the sparkle in your eyes.
You with wolf in your woman and fire in your feet, teaching the sweetness of dancing through the flames.
We have shared many lives together you and I. We have sung many songs
and laughed our bellies into butterfly festivals; so many butterflies.
I see you listening to the silence,
I hear you listening to the great hum, eyes out on the side of your head,
the horse in you breathing the breath of whales in the night.
I come to you and stand before the table laden with locusts, who in their teeming also listen to the silence…
So this is lunch.
Collect your things. The horizon has no limits the earth is still turning.
I may never know the sensation a tree feels as it barks at the moon but I can always imagine.
You taught me to dream up a reality and you never stopped dreaming.
You ate fruits that stayed in the blood growing you and soaking their roots into your sweetness.
The more I know you the less I know.
Elusive and elaborate weaver of webs and baskets.
I am grateful that you carried me and that I will always carry some of you with me wherever I go.

You #2.

The lady, the one whose reflexion I wish I shared.
Eyes of molten coffee; a complexity of complexion that always reminds me
of the precise things that could have made Rembrandt blush,
or even Gauguin for that matter.
There is part of you, sweet one, that I recognise; a gentle part, a dangerous part,
a part that lives in the shadows; sometimes hiding, sometimes lurking,
sometimes spying, sometimes crying.
Princess. Or maybe queen is the more accurate title.
Elegance drips off you, your beads of sweat and spit look as if they are composed of honey.
You teach me things, regal you.
You teach me caresses that can trail their gentle traces back to my childhood,
back to a time when “worry” was a word I couldn’t spell let alone think about.
A time of tipis and flower crowns.
Your arms have healing powers. Did I ever tell you that?
From within them I can stand with you on the moon and look across
at all the silliness I make of life, and giggle and know that somehow it is all going to be ok.
As a matter of fact, with you, my dear I think it might even be better than that.

You #3.


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