Member Poem

If the lines of a poem are its bones,
and the words in those lines are its flesh,
then its blood must be the rhythm it sounds,
spoken aloud or read on a page,
that gives each poem its breath.
 
If the days of our lives are their bones,
and the way that we spend them their flesh,
then their blood must be the lovers and friends
who fill our days and our lives,
to give each life its depth.
 
If the rocks of the Earth are its bones,
and the fauna and flora its flesh,
then its blood must be the wind and the rain
that swirl across the sea and land,
poisoned each day in a cool bloodless way
as if tomorrow were only a jest.
 
When my flesh and your bones,
my bones and your flesh,
lie down side by side in a bed,
desire is the blood that warms us both,
through the chill of the night,
for the darkness ahead,
so our bodies can love and rest.
 
 (First apppeared in SunOasis, 2003)