This poem was displayed at the Vancouver Neruda Celebration in 2006
and was featured at the end of the dvd of the event
I feel your song moving softly,
rippling underneath my skin -
crashing on the shoreline of thought,
raising mountains where oceans once lay.
I taste moonlight on your lips,
falling from ethereal skies of yearning.
As a child,
I watched our cherry trees bloom,
not understanding the ﬁery blush
that colored my cheeks, soft pink petals of silk.
When Autumn came, the fruit was sweet,
tender juices pouring from my mouth.
Hungered and quiescent under your darkened eyes,
I am a budding branch stretching for sunlight's warmth,
rooted in your earth;
this restless ﬂesh ﬂutters as your ﬁngers
trace edges of wind upon my heart,
every breath we share in shivered silence.
We were born to love this way,
lost in the depths
and found by the tethers of our searching hands
swelling tides in each other's oceans.
Compasses forgotten, we explore the trembling horizon.
I will not be moved, save for the gentle currents
of your water upon my Being.
You reach for me across space and time,
drifting on currents of breath between us.
We lay naked to each other's eyes,
sweetly surrendering to the sea -
unfathomable tempests roar within my blood.
How is grief fathomed, when light cannot be found?
I follow this maddening moon,
laying myself upon you as I offer succor in morning's embrace.
Your hands unveil an artist's touch, sculpting and molding curves,
stroking angles with deftness for colors and lines;
knowing the canvas glides with movements of your brush.
You sketch my love with bold strokes,
redeﬁning the expanse of my borders, of sorrows not quite earned.
We light these sacred candles, wondering why we still feel cold -
ﬂames ﬂicker on the periphery of silence
that will not hold stars as they fall from the sky.
There's a sigh drifting from your lips
that I'd love to kiss into silence, yet, I do not move -
I dare not speak, ending this quiet moment
that stretches between us as an eternity.
I want to feel those gentle hands tangled in my hair, always.
The bud opens shyly,
softly scenting the air with allure
as petals fall gently to the ground.
Leaves stir in a woman
who knows the grandeur of Autumn
and the harshness of Winter, whispering as she waits for harvest...