My Beloved.

[Guest guest]

My Beloved

 

What a strange planting this? Deep rooted, and reaching

out. Always this questing for the beautiful one who gardens

my soul. I am covert in the taproot, yet sprayed open in the

blossom. A bloom abandoned to the earth and sky of love.

 

The soul has its own way of traveling. It must seek out its

love twin and entwine within, as filament and vine. It seeks

the sap and wine of itself in the green leaf and the radix of

this other, knowing it is the Beloved within its lover, and

drink there and sleep there, uncurled and curling, in the coil

of touch and tender tendrils furling.

 

Open hearts fly to open hearts. Conjunctions of the heart

despise all borders. They create a ‘no mans land’ within a

place beyond distance and time, and meet there. There

where to fall into an others arms, is to fall into God. They

converge and seek an intercourse full in the blood of their

longing. To tear their clothes off is their dancing. Until

nothing remains but the soft pulse of a sweet connection.

Full flooded in the mouth of love, they seek a drowning, and

will accept no other death but this.

 

All the crazy ones are headless, or else their heads are

heedless, and sway as fragile poppies to a divine wind

uncaring in the gust, that rips a petal to shreds and thrusts

that fragile emblem into emptiness and unrestraint. Their

real headwaters are buried deep within each other. They

flow secretly into inmost tributaries and become oceans for

one an other. They seek a place to drown and be carried in

the whale of this love. Expired and inspired again into their

shared silence, that speaks their words as fiery tears.

 

When they sing of the Beloved, their voices are echoes from

a deep sea shell that has shaken free from the ledge of

safety, and all limpet holds. They do not cling, but sing as

they fall into the well of each other. They are shape-shifting,

in submerging caves. Deep undercover, their veins are

exposed and laid out in an arterial light, so bright, they feint

in this their flight in freedom. From moment to moment

they hunt the scent of love. One soul may be the prey and

one the hunter, yet both are devoured in the one mouth of

this passion.

 

A strange planting this connection. A strange touching and

releasing. A sweet blending and light recovery, only to

plunge again into the sweet bud of that sweetheart that gives

you its flowering as your own soul, but now enriched by a

perfume that only the Beloved wears. I breathe you in, and

you take me into your bower of precious beauty. There,

there are no words. There are no words that can paint this

discourse of desire. You call from your womb, and I turn

within it to comfort you.

 

You speak like this: Tend my flocks. Gather my children to

you. Father me in my loins. Taste my fruits, be my open

mouth and love me in this garden, suckle here and tarry in

my soul.

 

I am surged within you, within the wave, that pulls me

inwards as the current of your tides, and touch of you and

warm bed of you, responding as your tongue:

 

I shall love you in the morning of this meeting. I shall love

you in the night of our surrender. You are beloved, fairer

than the tulips of this field of melding, more lovely in my

sight than the stars that marry us beyond reason. My seed

and my planting. My harvest and ripening. My Beloved.

 

love

 

eric

 

 

 

Copyright 2002. Eric Ashford.