I think of the children who will never know, intuitively, that a flower is a plant’s way of making love, or what silence sounds like, or that trees breathe out what we breathe in.
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My bones is worried sick. I sleep with my clothes on. Full moons polish my skin white. I close my eyes. If I could dream no one would be alone.
My love’s ears are sea shells. Ocean swells of our bodies sway the long kelp gently in their green beds, long brown hair, her body the color of sand, smooth as sanded driftwood. The tides we are the tides moving the oceans in and out of estuaries and bays exposing each and then covering the other. No moon today, bright sun, a school of fish swim between us and are trapped in the nettings of our bodies.
William Timmerman