Rising

The smell of yeast of the soul
rises to my nostrils
in the early hours of morning
as the sheets release the night
into day.

My body
still fertile as the earth
of any woman who bleeds
is awake and searching
for signs of love.

There is no warm body
to reach out to
in this yellow light
but I feel you close
as if you were a hand to hold,
a breath to take in
and then release, lips
to touch together and moisten
with my tongue.

We are dancers
who have learned to move
without ever touching
each other,
the silent magic of magnets
sometimes forced together
like glue
are turned around in us
to opposite polarity
so that we must spin away
toward others who attracted us
without understanding the way atoms
are gathered in clusters
without a mind to sorting
oxygen from carbon
or lead from gold.

We are not love birds
wedded to the nest
where hatchlings
will learn to fly
with our prompting,
and yet we fly
so near each other
the feathers of our wings
often touch
and the wind is our master
in no time or place
when we travel
without heed
to the seasons passing
or the causes of human suffering.

My longing rises up
with the heat of the day
and I smile
knowing spirit
enters me
and fills me
like no other lover
I have ever known.