I love to think of life
as fertile
each of us an oak
being called forward
or an orchid
the exotic, erotic
lapping at our senses
January is cold and dormant
quiet in its growing
trace like brail
the subtle stimulation
the wind on my cheeks
leaves them red and throbbing
my furnace is lit
and settles to a slow smolder
I can wait
imbibe the Divine
knowing, what I'm Knowing
I trace your shape with my desire
not in fear
in the oak, the orchid
I am coming
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