Sparks.

When I am free

And the honey flows

In our mountain hut

It is a strange kiss

Of another's moving lips

On the fleeting tales

Suddenly shared like

A tree with its leaves

To an unexpected breeze.

Sleek anonymity is half

Removed by a simple face,

Its words gouged into clay

For firing, perhaps, after

The customary wait.

The eyeful of some future

Drips in; hosts playful vanity

In my icy limbs of

Dances briefly lived.

A heap of person in the sheets,

An enigma in my circle,

An adoring hand around my fingers.