His spirit beckons, different 
from the rest.  It pulls 
like the white light of a moon.  
I am not a coral meadow 
bulging from the ocean floor; 
I am not a tidal synergy.  
I am a cove, whose sand 
is coarse and simple.  
In the midwinter of my 
July, he draws the coldness 
from my deepest waters, 
he bathes my skin in 
the scent of his warmth.  
My flora opens, bright 
as a mountain dahlia; and 
I am bound to the heated 
colors of his fire sky.  


06 aug 01
M Madison