The Universe Does It - Why Cannot We?

Prose - mildly sensual, romantic prose full of imagery.

The world of the unpleasant has given my senses more than their fair share of its less than tasteful, and abundantly perverse creations -  gnarled, naked branches of rotting trees, or the sharp fragments frigid, strewn across the black asphalt of pavement, no longer the crystalline, slender, seductive icicles they once were. My experience in the pleasanter arenas of the sensual reality, have been limited, in fact, near non-existent, I must admit…
Still, I am not an individual without hope, anymore than a blooming flower can be seedless, a stormy sky cloudless, or the sea deprived of saltiness. I do not harbor negativity, though some would spew acidity, asserting that I could only stand justified in choosing such…But honestly, would it truly be justice? You tell me:

While there is still passion teeming, boiling, bubbling in the molten gold of rumbling volcanoes;
While grass and dew frozen be, combined as one, under night’s cover, awakening together each morning;
When disk of rising rays still penetrate, pierce, the delicate and tantalizing allure of skies skin;
While these two lovers unabashedly portray their unclothed embrace with the dawning and dimming day;
While streams, and rivers, spiral their curvaceous forms into a pattern embedded within the darkly enticing soil…
While stars illuminating the night sky…or perhaps…the twinkling pricks and coal curtain are concealing, participating, in their own secret indulgence entwined…
While wind still whispers sweet nothings, “butterfly, butterfly, come fly with me…come, rest atop the arched leaves….”
While pleasing petals of pretty shades plead “oh, oh, lover bee, won’t you pay a visit? Time has long since passed, and you’ve not been inside for what seems eternity…”

While there is all of this, in existence, can I say, truly, that I would stand in the right, by hiding my sultry soul, or dousing my fervent fire with the icy, deadening waters of vindication and hate stored from harsh winters before?  No, no, I’d much rather feed my already existent flame; melt the snow atop the pure mountain peaks blanketed by blizzard frozen – silken sheet spread in the light of a risen sun. Spark turns flickering, glint turns glaring, a roaring display of smoke slipping below the covering that soon thaws away, drip by drip – exposing - bit by bit, the scene taking place beneath. Will the bed of clay cringe with shame when its part in scandalous affair of twigs and leaves braiding, curling, and weaving is revealed? Will waking animals harbor blushing heat creeping, yet concealed underneath their glossy fur?

That which I lack in experience, imagination casts with the most willing of molding fingers; hands cradling my pliable clay, material raw and beautiful, are my gifts for you; palms shaping the wet substance into form petite, willowy, yet full; envision the lump, transforming, evolving, swirling into a supple figure eyes can do no justice with mere devouring…
This piece, this proverbial figurine of pottery, lies baking in the warmth of midday sun, awaiting the artist to paint...Paint an ember of luster vividly birthing within the orbs of intensely cat green eyes; paint a stroke of crimson across upper, then lower, parted, beckoning lips. Cheeks blooming, chin teasing, hair flowing, palm supporting head tilted, hear me murmuring, “if you are the one, won’t you come, I am no harsh place, my armies will lower their weapons for him that will vow true loyalty. Be my king, take my banner, settle in my land, enter me and remain forever, and ever, and ever…the Universe does it, why cannot we?”