by stein forster
That silver ball.
Hanging like a moon in the sky of her. Full. Open. Shining.Watching. Reflecting. Dangling to her rhythm.
Mirrors her worldly skin. The deserts of vast pinked and tanned lands waiting the seasons. Of touched dry. Of moistened spring rains. Of heat. Of cold. Of being alive.
Of taking it all in.
The ocean longing at her feet. Rippling love notes in her ears. Her breasts a slow and primal heave with the tide, the ride, the overdrive of reflection.
Nurtured by Gods hand. Her hands. Creative and warm, hold her strength to form. A mothers touch is her own.
The curtains fall to dreamland deep. To the twins that maketh so.
For a leaf to grow it must fall, and so be it for all.
No judge in place just the face of grace
With stories etched on her door.
Stories that change, that flow to her serving ways. This way, that way, hazy Sunday days.
These twins that embrace. At times disgrace. Yet are entwine the beauty of intimate lace.
And there it waits. White space to fill.
Sparse timbered rich love.
A space to melt. One cup, one wine. Eyes deep into their own. Embodied as the womb of warmth.
And as their feet entwine and merge to one, it is then they attract their soulful sun.