The Clearing

The drumming of rain on a roof and the mists that follow in bloom bestow on my mind
    the floret of the wet side of clouds.
Like green tea echoes in cold tea cups, its body swells silently about, always in justification
    of its sound, music and flow.

The liquid drifts to embrace the soil and the sea while ceaselessly falling from the shattered
    whole, a continent of clouds, from which it came. 

From my place near the bed, I watch it creep.
Its essence is all but new to me.
Like a girl whose intimacy falls in shadows, this ghost of scent stains my walls with rhythms
  of lotus floating in petals of innocence. 

And when her fingers touch my throat, what precious pieces of ice my words become!
Sliding down into my essence, their coolness robs my wonder of its dignity.

While she stands with no frosted intensions poised, I say "There is a slice of moonlight between
  your teeth" and she kisses my cheek. 
Filling my veins, the moonlit rose of her lips reminds my blood of new grass.

Its greenness, its taste freshens my eyes inspiring the complicated simplicity of death
    (ever growing bough of black).
It sings to my body of its being, its origin, for I am a child of its womb.
And of itself, it sings, "Ever the progression of life, forever the germinating roots proceed.
Always to death as always to life while my essence of water and rain arises." 

To that breath and humble exhalation, the apparition of the fog, tracing circles over her soul,
      blushes a beaded curtain of strangled indigos, prisms and rainbows.
Dispersing as smoke, her remnants remain, streaming in the wind.