We Become New
How it feels to be touching you…
I am an IO moth ; orange and yellow as pollen,
winging my way to you
through clotted night.
I could crumble in your fingers
still searing you with my light;
Yet our meaning together
is hardy as an onion
Goes into our blood like garlic,
Sour as lemon,
Gritty as wheat germ,
Whole as unhusked grain,
Rich as Autumn mead,
Golden as a honeycomb,
many chambers we share.
When I am turning slowly in the woven weaving of our talk,
when I am chocolate melting
I taste everything new in your mouth.
You are not my old friend.
How did I used to sit and look at you?
Now, though I seem to be standing still,
I am flying flying flying
in the trees of your eyes.
©Willow Rose 2011