The Dreaming Tree

It come when least expected,
or desired,
a naive eye that dwells upon a curve for a second too many,
or the meandering wind,
that throws strands of hair on a reminiscent cheek,
or an invading scent breeding familiarity,
first they trickle, glimpses, flashing little light bulbs,
playfully instigating the memories,
first comes the heat, the sweat, the entangled limbs,
then,
then a definite breach, a crumbling dam,
gushing through with vengeance,
a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
rapid, but not violent, not oppressive,
the debt of pain,
the insult of gauche,
all victim to pleasure,
surrender to intimacy,
only to find liberation in defeat,
moist palms, beaded temples,
and a smile etched in granite,
then suddenly,
the flood recedes,
the breach goes from saviour to sinner,
the mind wanders, desperatly searching for inspiration,
the eyes dart, all efforts thwarted by the dam,
now tall and strong, cunning and elusive,
the heart broods, begging for a few moments more,
of breathless pleasure, drowning,
no more touch,
or warm breath,
only a shadow on the mist,
of a smile etched on granite.
And as the sun settles,
the shadow will die,
slowly,
unless we peek over the edge,
and realize the sun never goes away.