What is held softly through autumn eyes

(Image is one I took last autumn)

What is held softly through autumn eyes

(Thoughts after a night of poetry--how admiration/amore should be or become.)

Here in rain stripped views, we place our soft hands into the sand;
an applause before reckless descent like a white egret before the water. Time spent on one trace, one object, where we live and dream in our very own pool of reality or reason. Here we have a place to experiment, a tongue to the tongue, the sea, our tutor.

And within these lines are contemporary images of a girl and a boy, invited to consider all that matters to them-- buoyant on the blue, finger to finger, we hold each other as the sun might grasp the day.

A generous definition striving to create prose--the proper setting for this would be on the beach or perhaps in the dark, crouched, hidden from distance,...and oh, the ache.

Others may divulge the full cache in some other method, laying claim to a heart that swells to the pound of splinter or digesting of flesh that becomes disquieting through-out the years--imposing what we call art. But we scream from balconies of contrasting skies, wishing, envisioning future stroke of lip to the touch to the heat--what is ours if only for awhile.

We are utterly beautiful, solid, and exquisitely intact.

Tender reader, I adore you.

Quiet to quiet, the mouth hole becomes naught, a ship's sail, where we float for hours--nothing to say or not needing to speak.

The horizon is terribly intense. Are we ideal?

One cannot change or translate it; stating rationale seems to signal compelling composition, but we could never blister what lies in our palms--thus is affection. We may not move exactly as directed, but we construct patterns and patterns of poetry that identifies us as star-crossed, influential.

If what is brilliant in our eyes strikes them as too sodden, then they have in no way held butterflies in the throat, bursting to the point of provocation or death, where just one kiss would ignite them to fiery hues of blues and greens like the colors of the ocean as a whole: a provocative anthology, a classic love anecdote;

dazzling scopes like a brush of eyelash against the cheek, the sand, the globe; explorations of the body that lead to the ideal summer that rests just outside the psyche or only exists when two people can imagine clear of the seen.

And like gentle stars, language, and love, our bond defies the laws of solemnity; we are above and beyond what one could ever envision. We are joie de vivre, with a touch of blemish that keeps the madness at bay.

But without flaw, one cannot experience the fork in the road that leads to subtle waters; he or she would tread the precise path-- never learning of anything more.