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Golden November light liquefies,

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)

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