Plumage of the heart

You were animated and paused

then the words came out.

I gathered up that flurry

of meanings,

what you had said

and are saying.

Really on automatic though,

because I was immediately slammed

into image overwhelm

from the tonal tidal wave

in your voice.

No . . . the meaning

does not match

because the tone

suggested a different place

that you were speaking from.

A place

that has little to do with words,

their meaningfulness

or your intent.

Yet these images to me

are deeply grand,

emotionally holographic,

as a thick living fabric of feeling.

The intimate ambience is inclusive

yet without closing in

on my voluntary gaze.

Everything about hearing this

is levitated,

as if we are somehow afloat

on speakers.

It is as if a ‘crafting of being’

incidentally launched these words.

I am there,

inside of here,

beside myself

but present

with where color becomes of itself

and passes it out

to the world around

as reflective rays of light.

Those colors are pieces of me.

I see them

as newly realized

and recall

what was forgotten about being.

You have gone there

with a reverence

through circumstance

that transforms.

Your tone returns me inside out.

There is plumage of the heart

all around,

expansion from within

without the mishap of time,

a river of currents

offering mouthwatering images.

I cannot retain

but I gulp their liquefied blessing

buoyantly

as I try to land in the words

while you are speaking them.

Now as I am

appropriately nodding

yet vastly silent

but filled with electrified cells

that steal from my hearing ,

like Piranha in a frenzy

of fresh warm blood

down to the bones

of what you are saying.

And for what?

For meaning?

I only listen for coordinates

to source that purity of spirit,

calling me,

fuming out,

from within those words . . .