~ Egg Shell Blue ~

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~ In a Pool of Memory ~

Have you ever collected the surface of water into your palms ? Held cupped while droplets fall strobing inside sunlight streaming though this canopy of trees.
Light and shadow, your thirst filled reflection rippling.
Were centuries held in this liquid memory bringing this moment?
Was this Sun caught inside the bowl of your hands with the glint from each water droplet sounding to earth.
Was it curiosity that landed upon Mars finding an ancient stream bed holding stones smoothed?
Or the deep reflection inside your round coffee cup waking the jaguar inside your obsidian reflection of your emerald eyes being lifted to your lips.
May be as another dream your mind cupped ,
lapping beside the shore as another anima of memory .
Gazing into the future ten thousand years ago .
Watching giant clouds move across the surface of a larger pool,
herds of creamy colours migration slowly setting a stillness of pace.
She quenches her thirst surrounded in reflection,
a canopy of nature as thoughts long ago, never spoken .
She purrs contentment filling deeply a memory,
a glimmer opens upon a ripple ,
of a familiar beasts reflection inside an obsidian bowl.
Dreaming inside a canopy strange.

~ the bowl of a quarter moon ~

There is no good night.
below a moon that is hidden by the horizon.
there was a shadow near, spilled from this quarter moon
uncurling her crescent bowl filling evening cool within a selene glow, suspended slow motion of every passing star cluster.
There must be names, none living today can place into words.
No voices to speak this past, memory will cast moons light,
shadows animate minds spellbound upon this earthly shore,
this bowl of a quarter moon, fashioned from opaline materials of earth.
Vespertine dews filled this bowl, an microcosm ancient symbol of earth etched then blended upon the bowl holding a moon
of liquid rippling the mirroring stars reflecting into the half moon cupped in your palms.
Mercurial the waxing crescent that cast light into shadow,
gesture of infinity quenches a thirst as earth tilts the bowl.
moon dresses the horizon, sewn lapis sky pinned beside her tinted rim.
here dreams sleep, stitch of shadows swirls round,
memories liquid as clouds.
horsetails clouds that circle a stirring sky
held timeless entranced upon the bowl of a quarter moon
becoming the gazer that wonders.
There is no good night to the sleepless.
here only night and day play a lullaby
with a moon setting vespertine shadow of dreams.
For if we sleep :
convince our souls to fall and rise deeply inside this bowl of the moon . beauty will ride a winged horse spurred from the wisps
of twilight clouds, gathering dreamers to ride to the milky way.
There is no word for good night.
just a lullaby of anima nocturnal.
a bowl turned from earthly stone,
filled with a moon cycles of dew.
hands cupped warming upon a surface of stars.
for theres no sleep for the dreamer.

December – 28

Were we uncommon

Are you watching the stars.
Are you under the covers warm with the light that bends around this earth.
Which touches the disk in the sky, called by many names through the earliest of eyes, which gazed then bathed their cool body under a river of a silver sliver of opalescent moon.

Taken; you lay, held wordless as this crescent grew to a fullness,  then hungrily waning away, a thirst to follow a rhythm of changes.

Are you watching the stars. Forever never changes, an orb that becomes change. Consistent desired primal and true. Carnal peace a stone that fits upon the body flows .
Phosphor light filling a rhythm.
Were not for the winged iridescent curious creatures born absorbed with the celestial colour.                                           Were this not my body that painted from a moons glow, were this not a memory, where from a wind carried thought through an evenings vesper.

Would not my piece of being fit so well into your wish so perfectly. That we would be as once, no one living today uncommonly remembers .

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