Night,
the morning folds around you
dew clinging like
breath
to the hems of grass,
larks stitching
sunlight
into the hollow of air.
Here, nothing hurries us.
Time grazes,
slow and heavy,
clouds drifting like whispered confessions,
and the earth leans close
hands of twilight earth,
pressing the
liturgy of return,
roots curling beneath our feet
like
secrets clawed
from shadowed soil.
Night,
if love takes a form, it is this:
your
shadow
braided with mine
in the tall, whispering grass,
our bodies
carving prayers
into the soil,
flesh entwined with root,
breath rising with wind,
desire threading through bone and leaf,
the world widening
to hold us
without asking
what we will become.
Night,
here, the air hums
with the
weight of us,
light bends and drapes across our bodies,
the earth remembering
every curve,
every shiver,
every brush of shadow against shadow,
every
pulse of hunger
beneath the skin.
Night,
we are the
soil and the wind,
the dark and the dew,
primal and infinite,
folded into one
ritual,
one
prayer,
one
flesh
beneath the sky.
