DIVING

I crawl naked onto the rock from the pool
where South Cita Creek falls
over hard water-carved sandstone,
the memory of spring-cold water
in my skin.

The shiver in my scalp could be your touch,
the shadow in the water your body rising
to glisten and hum beside me 
in the cold embrace
of the water's remembrance.

You are with me now,
in the first trace of light on star-crusted clouds,
in the cautious gaze of deer,
in the mystery songs of birds
waking the day.

I glimpse you through the doors of beauty,
vanishing as the canyon light changes,
reappearing in sun glow through a net of juniper boughs.
A crescent moon hangs for a moment unmoving
just above the white bone mesa rim.

I want your eyes to see with mine,
to share my ears and nose,
for you to take my tongue as yours,
to wrap my wet skin around the wet of your skin
so we hold together this aching wonder.

From the rock, naked and alone,
I dive into the water again and again,
knowing how much the cold will hurt my head
and how skin will shudder
and not let me forget.


© 2001 by Richard W. Todd

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