Gnarled knees bent unto the earth.

"What if,"  I proposed, as you rubbed charcoal across my face,

"what if I used my tongue
to lick the freckles from your shoulder?
Or painted you with the Light still clinging onto the fur of a cat-tail?"

"Well, then I suppose my body would be your canvas," you said,
black-tips alive upon the chill of my cheeks.




"And what if I used your hand to paint?
And dipped your finger-bristles into pond and soil
(and pond again for added moisture)?"

"Then I suppose I would be your brush, as well.
Now, stop moving. I need you steady for this," you hushed.




The subconscious dart of green from left to right to left again,
and I giggle-cringed as you tickled my nose, my lips and brow.

"And what if we circle twice the sky,
list the clouds in alphabetical order,
and get tangled in trees!?"




As my hands finally flung themselves into the air,
you sighed, laughing:

"Darling, if when you put my soil-laden fingers
to the canvas of yourself,
and I put yours to mine--

we may just find that this Love
is the perfect hue
for soul-painting."