leaves of grass.

Come, said her soul,
but scattered the butterflies,
with a wave of her hand.
The book lay open,
vulnerable, on her thighs,
the same way she splayed herself,
upon leaves of grass,
as she lay with head in his lap.
I know you are restless,
and make others so,
he said,
but why have you done that?
his words warm as Earth’s soil,
surrounded by trees, winds,
and their tumultuous waves.
They shouldn’t be here, she said,
trying to behave.
He reached to close the book,
but she caught him,
her hand on his own,
upon her weakening thigh,
touching leaves of grass.
Ever with pleas’d smile,
may I keep on?  he asked,
seeing a smile form from under,
the trees’ shade across her face.
So he continued reading,
ever and ever yet the verses owning;
the words gathering butterflies,
from long forgotten gardens,
as he left their book open.
Come, said her soul,
and she allowed it to be.

And your very flesh shall be a great poem. – Walt Whitman



8 thoughts on “leaves of grass.

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