If my body is your temple,
Your spark kindles my inmost fire.
In the dark, I tend your flame,
Drawing strength from the promise
Of warmth and light.
When the ashes pile up high and
The air grows heavy with our closeness,
I loosen the fastenings on the shutters,
Draw back the bolts from across the gates,
Let all my doors and windows open wide.
I let the ashes blow away,
A gust of silvery powder,
The residue of our silent solitude.
And after that, still and soft you come,
Brightly through my empty halls.
Flooding my chambers with clear air,
You consecrate my body with your light
And make this temple home.
©jsmorgane Feb 2018
On a day I chanced to sit
Under Hornbeam in my mitts,
Looking out across the vale,
Sheltering from the howling gale,
Tightly wrapped in scarf and cloak,
Listening to English Oak
Who was humming merrily.
Hornbeam said: ‘Does that a lot,
I fear he might have lost the plot.’
Me (in Tree):
‘But don’t I hear a tuneless,
Yet somehow catching sound,
Rasping, crashing noises,
Swishing whispers, cymbals, gong?’
A strange duet it was,
As storm and tree began
To tell of holding close and letting go,
Their voices joined in song.
English Oak made our day,
Deftly managed to allay,
To befriend the fearsome gale
Who presently began to play
Tag up there in the branches
Leading Dragon merry dances,
Who by then had left his home
Under Hornbeam’s root,
Having, frankly, quite a hoot
Chasing wayward waftings.
English Oak shook with laughter:
‘Oh it tickles! How delightful.’
Hornbeam (to me):
‘Now, what do you say to that?
I think we are duty-bound to add
Singing Wind to our odd
Amidst the roses I lay dreaming,
When the ground sighed softly
And the grasses reached up
To embrace the rosebuds tenderly.
Then the roses grew radiant, and
Grass and flowers danced
With the same mild wind which made
The leaves in the branches above us
Shake with carefree laughter,
And which also called me
© jsmorgane (June 2012)