His voice, a concerto that runs through my veins.
It is a subtle rainfall caressing lashes tenderly,
until it has strung a stretch of silver clouds
that shiver above the wondrous sea.
During these hours,
I release tension, carry myself towards
the humility that illuminates within his warm
eyes, follow graciously, and slip with pleasure,
perennial into his open and alluring hands.
There, in minimalism, we develop into the devotion
that contains us—an open field of fragrant fiori,
a cordial sanctuary, where spring has left its kiss,
where apprehension and uncertainty subside.
Tuesday, May 05, 2009
Babbled by Cher Ferroggiaro at 8:01 AM