She Was Like Nature

She was like nature,
a beautiful storm,
or a gentle rain
with golden rays of sun bathed hair,
porcelain skin
arrayed in the scent of springtime showers,
and eyes so beautiful
they must have contained the glory
of heaven and angels,
and of god himself.

She was her father’s heart
her mother’s beloved,
and she spent her nights
perusing the voided lacuna
just beyond the softened yellow hum
of the moon’s corona,
where she hid herself
in the memories
of fragile breath and failing lungs,
as she clung to wooded valleys,
roaring torrents
and whispering gales.
to mourn her parents’ heavenly finery.

He was like the terra firma,
an arid forest,
or uncultivated land,
with soft, Irish green eyes,
as soothing as an afternoon amble
near the seashore.

His heart was flanked by briars,
brambles and berry trees
making it impenetrable,
and his soul reeked of a beauty,
like the aroma of incense
that has endured a thousand lifetimes
of hopes and dreams
splintering and crashing to the forest’s floor
to burn in silence.

The pulsing heart of the storm
created a subtle swell,
releasing waves of desire
to cascade over his soul,
and eventually unfolded
in white-rinsed foam peaks,
like an old, vellum parchment
unrolling in the sky
invoking poets to toil
and to break the scrolls of stormy dreams
that hold the annals of a lonely soul
who scaled the highest clouds
to arrest the affection
of a beautiful storm,
that she might resurge in the form of a gentle rain
and softly kiss the forehead
of a dry and dusty land

(perhaps compelled by secret longings to be soaked in the residue of silver droplets,
as he abodes in her).

So he again
Implores the heavens
to perpetually downpour,
that the showers may caress him,
splash upon his brow with liquid drops of affection,
and serenade his soul
a cloudy lullaby,
as it still pools in his lonely heart,
and makes running pools in every delicate touch
of nature.

He longs for her,
the beautiful storm,
to appear
in resurging shades of blue,
and in less abashed hues,
to soak all the colors
of the voided spaces in-between,
and to erase the darker shades of lonely grey
that chalk the dry and dusty plight of haze,
long settled in every memory
and in the measure of every droughtful day,
to fill the vacuum of waiting skies
with her,
his gentle rain.

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