My eye travels across the room
And alights on the rattan bookcase,
Woven on some isle in the East Indies,
Woven of women’s voices gossiping and laughing,
Woven of songs and children’s cries and dogs barking.
Its arch embraces memories in warm frames,
And hopes in the shape of books yet unread,
In rows like unborn children.

On a wooden block is a loaf,
Honey-colored and crackled,
Like celadon ware from China,
An offering of your love for me,
Glowing in the light of late afternoon.

My eye travels past the mirrors —
The oval one like a portal to a gentler century,
The square one in its golden frame,
The one held by a Buddhist demon dancing in curly flames,
And my eye rests for a moment
On the blue porcelain pot
That a man’s arms could barely encircle,
Its leaves quietly green like a glade,
Then upon the vase the shape and color of an amphora,
Its neck sprouting a sheaf of wheat,
Then upon the terracotta pots red with geraniums,
And upon the blue pitcher with its looping handle,
Its shape wavering as if the potter’s hands had just lifted
From the wet surface.

Tonight is cold and we have spread an extra blanket.
Your breathing is deep and I slide the book from your hands
And slowly remove your glasses, folding them gently.
Tonight is cold and you are wrapped around me,
Your head on my shoulder.
I look at your sculpted features
And my thoughts travel to a magic isle, like Aeaea.

You are in the sun busy with something,
And from the mottled shade beneath the grapevines
I watch the sea,
The sea is the restless mind of a god,
Restless like stallions,
And the island itself is the body of a goddess.

At night we huddle in a hut
And the mind of the sea god is pensive, remote,
His thoughts moving over us as a cool breeze.
We huddle and are one day closer
To being twin stars
Barely visible
From Earth.

September 20th, 2006