Post by amelie on Jan 26, 2004 19:21:38 GMT -5
We played a game, she and I,
And said: if she were a flower,
Which species would she be?
I couldn’t answer,
Could not describe
What she means to me,
But later I remembered…
In northern Borneo,
On Kinabalu’s slopes,
Between thin high air and
Torpid rain forest heat,
Where the warmth of life
Meets frigid afterworld;
In that narrow band
Of breathless beauty
Between earth and the stars,
Is her home;
Cocooned in constant cloud,
Enveloped in shroud
Of dancing fronds
Of filigree vapour,
Misting up from
The fust of loam and mould,
Of damp moss and rot
From moist forest floor.
She is found there,
Nestled down in the musty
Bark of ancient trees;
In dappled strands of light
Like fine wisps of hair
That scatter and flit as the
Breeze shuffles the motes
Into swirl in the perpetual dusk,
Wafting waves of woodbine,
Columbine, saxifrage
And moonshine white;
She gleams, a tiny star
In the gloom, A shimmering,
Precious beacon,
And the way point
For all my hopes.
A snowy petalled,
Five petalled star,
Resplendent and resilient;
She is the sun
In this sunless universe,
Burgundy rimmed,
As if she had sipped
On a rich ruby wine
That barely brushes the lips,
Taking the sacrament;
The dew and mist clinging
On her pale, down turned face,
In modesty bowed in prayer,
Making you think she is crying:
Maybe she is.
Clothed in crinoline
Of smoky pearl organdie,
Her secrecy wrapped
In labia of finest chiffon;
Her stamens stammering
And vibrating to
The minute passing
Of wraith like fronds
Of mist and dew,
Ghostly in the lisping fog;
The air like macramé lace
That swathes and enfolds her
From all but my view.
Precarious as innocence,
But beautiful like the
Treasured pearl,
Nurtured by sacrifice
Only a mother would make;
Wistful and lyrical,
As the best poetry
That comes in the astral
Moments before sleep;
As fragile and precious
As the lingering
Heartbeat of a dying child,
Slipping slowly
From the grasp
Of a helpless mother,
In those last lonely moments
Of agonising vigil.
All this and more
Is what you mean to me;
My issa,
My orchid.
Can we play something else now?
