Snowfall clings to this mountain as fallen lingerie
yet the body of this mountain is the essence of me.
Often my heartfelt is as this body heat for melting.
It comes off of me warmly as tears into streaming.
For I have always loved and lived
for this fresh kiss from the sky
but without movement as my expression,
my yearning appears stoic yet placid to this touch.
In other ways, foggy days and nights
make us seem so resolute but secretly clandestine.
At times the wind does the whispering between us.
She forms with tongue while I undulate with lips.
What becomes fluently pronounced,
we each understand from the other.
For it is not the blue of the sky that draws me,
as blue is the apparel worn by day.
But the night times are without wardrobes.
Sure, clouds may linger and pose
but I am many thousands of years,
watching with caressing closeness,
I know of every alluring star-pore
and all the contours that run deep,
every seductive curve of embodiment
and every pleasuring measure of motion,
nighttime to nighttime, season to season,
eons of eternities, sinking intensely into me.
Stillness is my prayer as my humble offering up.
I go on, without ever otherwise saying.
Some nights, we lay as close as two can be.
Dignity is our method of primal passion,
openly accepted and intimately exchanged.
We meld into a oneness,
each by a distinct approach of presence as being.
She is expansive, illusory and grand.
And I am withholding, fused in revelation,
that in the love from our oneness,
there are no boundaries, no limitations
or no resistance, that matters . . .
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