Vetty214
11-03-2007, 02:41 PM
That Man (draft I wrote this morning - an old ghost visited me Halloween night)
The hair at the back of your head has the texture of the freshly mowed grass of spring, tender yet firm, but the color of a wet seal’s down, slick, thick and shining, deeply interwoven with silver and I smile in wonder at it on the head of an old man, while my hands greedily grip, then release it, and my eyes snap it up like a vision for safe-keeping
and as I run my fingers slightly above the muscles of your resting arms brushing lightly the abundance of silky white threads, I imagine that the soft filigree I find there are the un-spun silks of a cocoon of a butterfly waiting to be spun for shelter
and I lightly rub at your shoulder blades which have something deeper and darker, a moss of hair like a secret waiting to be discovered at the base of a tree, musty and dank like upturned earth in a well-tilled garden, full of fertilizer to support life
and your chin calls to my mouth, my face, my eyes, my hands for there I see your entire life, a field of sparkling strawberry and sun, the silver there is not silver but the white gold of the sun seeking the lake through clouds and I can lie in there forever pushing and pulling at it, sinking into the fragrant hay, feeling saved and lost
and when my hand happens onto your chest I halt suddenly, my heart slows for once before I had taken a fistful of the golden locks strewn like sweet ropes twirling and I had fallen hard, later to awaken broken and alone, in a silence I could hardly bear
and here I am again looking at your chest, knowing it for a lion’s lair, if only I could stop there.
The hair at the back of your head has the texture of the freshly mowed grass of spring, tender yet firm, but the color of a wet seal’s down, slick, thick and shining, deeply interwoven with silver and I smile in wonder at it on the head of an old man, while my hands greedily grip, then release it, and my eyes snap it up like a vision for safe-keeping
and as I run my fingers slightly above the muscles of your resting arms brushing lightly the abundance of silky white threads, I imagine that the soft filigree I find there are the un-spun silks of a cocoon of a butterfly waiting to be spun for shelter
and I lightly rub at your shoulder blades which have something deeper and darker, a moss of hair like a secret waiting to be discovered at the base of a tree, musty and dank like upturned earth in a well-tilled garden, full of fertilizer to support life
and your chin calls to my mouth, my face, my eyes, my hands for there I see your entire life, a field of sparkling strawberry and sun, the silver there is not silver but the white gold of the sun seeking the lake through clouds and I can lie in there forever pushing and pulling at it, sinking into the fragrant hay, feeling saved and lost
and when my hand happens onto your chest I halt suddenly, my heart slows for once before I had taken a fistful of the golden locks strewn like sweet ropes twirling and I had fallen hard, later to awaken broken and alone, in a silence I could hardly bear
and here I am again looking at your chest, knowing it for a lion’s lair, if only I could stop there.