More dreams of you,
the pure-hearted pursuer of God,
drinker of that unflinching light
that Jesus drank before He became it.
Your hair is drifting
on the winds like pollen
across green seas,
and through the peaceful skies,
like gold dust, drifting,
bearing your honeysuckle fragrance,
your lusty humus, your faint carnations
in its long fluid strands.
When you come in the night
with your three trembling roses,
you fill my darkness with fragrance.
I would kiss you with foursquare kisses
upon your double face
and watch in the mirror of you
visions of constellations
being born in luminous clouds
across southern skies.
In the calm waters of your eyes
I would see fleeting images
of rivers flooding arroyos,
bright honey offered by a warrior
on his extended staff,
a balsam-balmed book that pours winds
and flutes from its pages.
And because of your devotion,
I would choose a God-huge freedom
pouring through wheat and water,
onions and wine,
so the crafty dwarf of me
shall never remember his old magic
of how to entrap
God's sweet oils in dirty pots
so he can hoard them in dark basements,
nor how he once wove word-spells
out of a child's fear
to enchant swans into housewives
enthralled with specials at the mall.