the morning is slipped,
like clay
slicked from rain’s
dreams in your hands,
bringing up water
to shape my skin its dust,
mud, dirt and rock,
your fingers
turn
on morning’s wheel,
pulling new ribs into standing,
your touch of willful, wifely
symmetry
make me a vessel,
a well to hold water
and now a lip
to meet yours
For The Twiglets
qbit 
OOh… some romancing…
first comment disappeared.
Your link at Twigs didn’t work but I found your piece by your icon.
Cheers, Jules
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Thanks!
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Well, that’s almost spooky! I love ‘rain’s dreams…’ and ” your fingers turn on morning’s wheel.” Beautiful imagery, and obviously, I appreciate the metaphor!
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Lol! Thanks. Yes, I though it was great to see that we both came to similar metaphors from two completely different paths.
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hmmm…??? My first comment didn’t go through. ???
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