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The soul of summer, like young love,
doesn’t know how to keep its distance.
It hovers over the page
with its words all kinds of splendid
and its wings tipped in fire
daring the ink to go
in places before unknown
and the heart to have faith
in whatever is on the other side
of the writing-covered wall.
Passion ensnares us
within twists of the overgrown ivy
that has claimed that brick wall,
turning boundaries into invitations
with nature’s calligraphy
rendered in rosewater and light.
We become wrapped and enraptured
with visions resembling the touch
of satin on bare skin,
our temperatures rising
in response to the salacious coaxing
of the naked blue-white sky.
Like a metaphysical duet
of energies and the flesh,
we match its romantic professions
verse for verse,
harmonies for melodies,
trading our defenses for bossa nova
and al fresco kissing,
the ardent awareness of being alive
surrounding us like a heady cocktail
of butterflies and barefoot dancing,
like nights synonymous
to symptoms of fever
translating aches into longings.
This hypnosis, this surrender
feels like a previously
withheld privilege,
our inner strings vibrating
with that sentient magic,
all rhyme and no reason,
neither knowing nor caring
where our feasting senses end
and the yearned-for breeze begins.

Image of Anema Residence, Santorini (photographer unknown)


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