Underworld
Drawn in, drawn under
To touch and taste the fruit so rude and bursting green.
Only it's not.
Hard fig of hope rotting before it ripened.
It seems that nature is my lover. Every so often she calls and I respond. I grab the gear, jump in the car and drive in the direction that whispers. I never know exactly what my lover has in store, or where we'll meet to move and breathe and touch, to kiss the wind, to dance through the sand and accept the ancient quivering current... When I return home, to rest a while and bask through the frames of our liaison, I want to offer the jewels … could it be my lover is also yours?