Renaissance

at the eleventh hour the dead leaf
almost scrunched underfoot
transforms to glittering butterfly
in the January morning frost

it does so magnificently
rebirths through ache
in its dance to something else

melted, surrendered to wordless bridge, 
we almost nearly 

touch

ask me to come closer. let's talk on moonbeams
walk on ribbons of parallel thought
holding high and low together,
bearing all

in the spectrum of swirl and sway,
that bends us blindly,
it can feel like lava, opening up spaces between 
dead grey rock
and red hot joy.

I keep time. lose beat. assuage thought and feel
so deeply at home,
when I am in stillness that I simply never want to leave

my whole body pulsates, 
reverberates in the constellations within
the discomfort ebbs, finds flow
lights this darkened conversation

I talk to the world sideways on my pillow,
To talk up close to you