Saturday, May 12, 2007

earth above mountain.

To learn to become smaller in order to become bigger. To learn to walk slower in order to run faster. To learn to decrease in order to increase. To learn to fill one's mouth with stones in order to be heard clearer. To lie down in order to stand up.

Many nights I watch the moon. I watch it change its character. Its grows, it declines. Its silvery rays fall on the pathway outside the back door. This is the forest around us.

She sleeps beside me. Her shoulder is bare. Her hair lies loosely on the pillow. She is quiet, at peace. When she looks at me her eyes contain knowledge not spoken. She no longer runs to me with water. She is free.

The night is gentle. There is a full September moon. I hear an owl from somewhere. The rustle of branches. Or perhaps a fox in the undergrowth. It is warm. The leaves shine in the moonlight.

Sometimes we walk under the trees. Sometimes we sit by the river. We have little need of words. We watch the water run over the stones, push its way through the forest. We sit there, arm against arm. A piece of long grass between my teeth.

I think of her cotton dress over the back of the chair. Her boots on the floor. Then the aeoliated tangle of our bodies. The sweetness of her mouth, her skin. The beating of my heart. Full. Hers. Full.

The creak of the old bed. Warmth. Silence returning. Sleep. Only the sounds of the forest remaining. The moon. The dew at dawn. The stain of the night fading away.

Copyright (C) Peter Millington