to the stream between hills--
it's the same slope my body wears
when you are watching,
head to breasts to the valley
by the thighs.
The blackbird that is my dreams
sings to the air until
she IS the air, it seems,
singing--
Lilt and lift, hill
and rift
and pattern-shift
and then I am in it,
I am the Pattern,
I am the Beholder of Patterns.
I'm the deep sky
and the map of reasons why, and
the earth holding us up
and all space embracing us
light as doves, lovingly
above in beauteous skies,
seen through the telescope
of your eyes.
J. Pratt-Walter
12/2/2012
