The Taste of Honey

Synchronize your daydreaming
to the lighting of the stars
while you watch the blue moon rising
and you may find my hand
crossing the sky,
tempting fate.

If you are awake
you will see me
fingering this sweet, beautiful orb
hanging on the edge of the new year
like a droplet of fresh honey
to be placed on the tongue
for pleasure alone—
only to melt and glow
in the middle of my mouth.

Who am I
to be this bold,
to want this much happiness
all to myself?

Surely I am no goddess,
nor a woman of importance,
who will be forgiven for forgetting
my place in the dust.

Even so,
even with this warning
in the light of day,
I find you
with poetry
on your breath,
waiting eagerly
to kiss the lips
that have abandoned
the idea of sin
to sing the praises
of the truth
without shame
or fear of retribution.

Even the bee understands
what must be given
to prosper
at the edge
of such abundant
wilderness.

Sacred Space

Inhale December air
freshly washed with rain,
where snow was expected
and the sun surprises the eye
with new light
that was lost in fog
and the mist of melting
only hours before,
and you will know
my sacred space.

Trees stand tall here
and dare to reach for the heavens
only because their roots are planted—
have grown deeply down
into the veins of granite,
heavy anchors
to Mother Earth.

Breathe with me in the silence of this place
and you will suddenly find your belly touching mine,
skin exchanging oxygen through every pore,
the surface open
like cells absorbing
necessary nourishment.

Your soul shadow is painted
on the delicate walls
inside the cave of my body.
In this temporary temple
ancient symbols draw conclusions,
and poetry is written
in a language only we share
and must recite
before the dawn of waking
and at the rituals
welcoming the night
where we kneel before the alter
of each other,
gently touch the face of the blessed,
and embrace what we have learned
of peace.