spun through fingers like weeds
grown in green gardens of God's mist
kissing the tip of my tongue
I close my eyes to better see your underpinnings
pointedly piercing perception
realized, flowering and then pluming
my broad bearded breast
pressed to yours, glistening gold and pulsing
a tiny glistening drip of my eye
falls to grace and esses along your in-between
drowning dreams
in the winding, weaving weeds of our consciousness
I could not be happier.
--R.F. Willow and Baby Blue 2/5/10
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