The minute I heard my first love story I started looking for you,
not knowing how blind I was. Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere.
They’re in each other all along. ─ Rumi
On the fertile shore of a granite island I wake,
flooded with happiness, a sweet sense of being
loved. I rummage through the dream looking for
him. We began by speaking of Requiems, he loves
Fauré. I sleep the sleep of islands, days edged in
granite and spruce. Forests surge with moss, sun-
filled meadows court me, words drift like watercolors
onto wet paper. My mended heart a steady paddle,
dips a path through a quiet evening sea. In the dream,
our bodies touch, wading in cold water at dawn, wave
nuzzled. Eyes closed, body to body, lips to his rich
mouth. I want to see him! My eyes open to see no
man, only meadow, fluttering, light-streaked, where
orange butterflies dazzle and tease a cobalt sky. In
the next summer’s dream, I turn toward a man’s face
but go blind before I see him. He takes my arm, his
fingertips slide back the sleeve of my blouse. It must
be summer to wear a cloth so light. His mouth brushes
across my breast. Startled, desire dazzles, streaking silver
across the bay, yet my arc of vision sees nothing. I only
feel. His lips kiss my sun-burnished skin.
Whe r e The Be l ov ed Fi nds Me
Sun-filled meadows court me,
words drift like watercolors
onto wet paper.
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