I enter your words, mirth-mouthed
in clothlight, lost in the hidden vestiges
of your afterworlds that form the distant,
departed valleys of a barley-amber gray,

where sounds of blue entrancement seek the
drift absolve in a suspended water of the moor,
your heart, a nemophilist listening to the
earth residing inside the stupor of starlight,

projects your love, a terrestrial entelechy,
an orb of myriad conscience that transforms
me, becomes a fulfillment of purpose, an
anaphora of the soul formed of the body

liberating in its purpose to languish warm,
reaching redemption in the musk and
might of an hour’s salience, past this time,
past recollection to a bead of its moment:

where a glancing calm consumes me,
surrounds me in the pulse of living
and loving to the pause of each second
when I become the verity of my Self.

 
© K. James Ribble