Life

It's only when I frame you into language that the nonsense starts.

Until then,

you are the ant tickling your way across my ankle

and the pebble wedged between the crevices of my flip flop and the flesh of my big toe

You are the heartbeat in the waves washing on the shore,

rise, fall, rise fall, rise

You are the distorting liquid mirror enlarging what lies beneath so objects are bigger and nearer than they may appear

The swell of desire once expended that crashes into sound and foam and leaves darkness in its memory

only to rise again from wake to crest

to grow and glow and crash

You are the soft round swell of breasts encased in lemon yellow nylon bikini frame - proud declaration of femininity

the length of long tanned leg and the scar and softly jelled belly swollen with acceptance of passions existing beyond a diet of supermodel numbness

You are Hunger rising from depths with a soft rumble growling for the arms of My Man

You are the squint needed to gaze at the far side of the hill

treed velvet sweetness, rock crag of raw unglazed power you, the green thirsting leaf curling at the edges from a gnarled arm extended

discarded pine cone, left where fallen

You are the white at the center of a thirsting tongue needing sustenance

the silver adornment placed about my wrist

wet shake of a happy dog's fur, smile of a child.

You are the clean fresh smell of nothing.

You are the pieces that are seen and felt and tasted

Words not spoken

Existence,

You are.

It's only when I frame you into language that the nonsense starts.