melting my bones from the inside out
while I am a basking pool smiling under blue skies
as bee planes drone overhead, purring like contented cats.
Below the master aviators recline among the boughs
and relax along the limbs and hide beneath the leaves
and chirp and chatter in desultory conversation
as I drop at my ease, embraced by my solar lord.
From my deep pool depths I smile.
Each toe is cool and burning,
each leg languid, my elbows loose and silly,
my heart-womb green.
I loaf upon this rain softened earth and stretch,
swimming fish-like, through the swelling grass,
awakened at last and radiant with winter’s wet kisses.
Rising, I pour my granddaughter’s bubble soap,
then use her magic wand to fill the air with fantasy
while I twirl and weave and spin
among the glistening, opalescent orbs.
Dizzy, I sink down and drink deep
the smell of earthworms and snails
and wet things that live within the Mother
letting their coolness slide provocatively
against my sun-drunk skin.
(pictured: Yellow Trees, 2011 Marie Taylor)