I touch your image in a dream of winged grace.
If I can but touch you gentle dove,
I caress you, tender my kiss, you
only you, my love.
A tear glistens joyous celebration of you,
You are the gift of angels,
be there heaven true.
I would stroke your linen cheek
in love,
drink deep smoothing waters,
passion wells I seek.
You shall be with my blood
in thrushes,
wing in song,
bearing promised rush
to covet you as golden chalice,
the fruits of my entreaties placed
within you
no hinting palace.
You reach to palm my darkened being
to hold, as you say,
me as a gift, seeing
your light,
your despair wrought
in sparing decisions,
mistaken.
I will take you to new meadows sought.
Fall my stars to your lonely facade.
There pain I will not take, not as you bade,
for you are my reasons to carry home.
My ardent rapture for you, my winging dove.
It is the one you, what you, I must roam.
I will a long perfect sun, or twilight gloves.
As you wing
through my clouds of love.
Peasant and, so kings
have died in pursuit
of woman that is mystery,
notes of the flute Pan,
melody that leaves elusive clues.
I give you all my poor being,
to have as you will,
To share most inner thoughts,
beckon still,
a lover lost is past to be healed,
turned in time
to new directions,
pleasuring in Bacchus revels.
Lay beside me,
and hold to me your cup of wine.
Your spirit rainbows colors
shining gold,
all the jewels in this,
world, now told
my love undaunted,
an arrow in flight,
harkens me as lover,
embrace me
pirouette in green gardens,
chorused sunlight.
My hands hold you my dove,
so gently as to free,
you to seek your wish,
although may,
it be not me.
� 2000 DPMcClellan
