Yesterday, I woke up with the classic elements on my mind. They followed me home from a dream. It wasn’t a very rational dream… Then again, any dream worth having possesses a bit of surreality and a whole lot of magical realism. In my dream, I sat on a cloud delighting in ginger tea and Dominican cake, my feet dangling from the edge.
I stayed there from dawn to dusk and again… watching a wild-haired woman go about her day. When the sun was out, she mostly gardened. When the sun slept for the night, she was all woman, sometimes rather loudly *cough*… other times, quietly dancing under the rain of my home cloud. The following poem was born from the thoughts that lingered… after I woke up:
Her night is made of fire and teeth,
of wild thrusting of the hips,
of warm nibbles on her lover’s bits.
For finger-kissing the dirt,
she saves the whole of her day—
planting seeds, cuttings, and roots…
reaping fruits for thought
On rainy days
(and dark moon nights),
she dresses in cooling cloud kisses
and the warmest of the wind’s
linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads (Tuesday Platform)
“Das Leben Ist Kurz (Life is Brief)”, by Patricia Ariel