A woman faces east;
the sun's promising rays fall gently over her
bare shoulders, and her eyes sparkle
with a light that is independent
of the day's ebbing glory.
I do not know what this is,
this burning inside while hovering
above the soft
ripples of the sea,
where the waves
whisper lover's secrets –
words normally lost in the
creases of pillows.
Eros is a concept like the
diaphanous cloth that covers
her form, the topography of a
land waiting behind mist and fog
to be uncovered by a valiant pilgrim.
I do not know what this is,
but I am both enraptured and afraid;
it's like a dream – you're falling and
you startle awake only to find yourself
falling while others look on amused,
and but there's a calm voice carried on
the wind rushing past your ears, saying…
"I will catch you."