She is always the scent of honeysuckle
and the smile of wheat.
When she kissed me like my Grandmother
I began equating her
to the mountains, to the setting sun.
To the feeling I have in the mountains,
who steal my breath;
teaching me it’s not that important.
To the feeling I have when the sun doth set;
things do leave, I must admit.
At least I can raise my glass in toast
and lie down in the death shroud
that she's woven me.
In a coffin I will not be buried,
except of soil, and of she.
A meal can never be ageless,
but yes, it can.
With her, the first meal, I remember
watching her hands move like leaves
through autumn seas, centuries ago.
Thinking, “if she were made of clay
she’d encompass turquoise”, and
“I would store grapes in her self of clay,
and put them on display for the children to take.”
O woman of bread,
am I still eating?
Or, standing with my mouth in awe
at the way you remind me of the Earth and earthly dust.
My DNA I always leave to the Universe,
hence you and I are dust.
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