Turning, She turns, into her past, six months gone,
seeing once again her vibrant generosity spilled across the lands and heavens,
seeing once again herself, arrayed
in gossamer robes of peach, yellow and lavender,
her fragrant breath, her song, that decreed it all to be, drifting, floating;
She, the music, symphonic perfection
She, loving into sunlight, the darkened sky
She, the dance emergent, impetuous, wild.
She crafts her naked soul before our hungry eyes,
gives herself away in extravagant and unrestrained pleasure,
She orchestrates the heated days and nights,
that we must run laughing into her open arms,
drunk on her voluptuous bounty,
swooning on her potent fragrance;
we surrender to her moments, helpless with joy,
heedless of passing time.
Turning, She turns, full forward,
She pulls her velvet robes close upon her breast,
her upturned eyes shoot golden streams of light out unto her furthest stars,
She ignites all lands and heavens with her fiery countenance.
Reaching down, she touches the hem of her garment,
her blood red heat explodes across the landscape, her power
above her, below her, around her, within her,
She causes all of life to break into prisms
of rust, amber and scarlet veined in vibrant green, edged in burnt umber.
Her dance halts, flawlessly
She commands the breath between the measures,
turning, from staccato racing of her summer tango, slowly
She descends into haunting whispers of her requiem,
breathless, inside her tipping point,
- © 9-22-14 pb -