poem 103 of a poem a day for 2012

I pray in Her trees, too

She scent gathers me

on my knees

but rather

then submit

just yet

I thirst spill
the weight

of Her waters

on my chest

for a bit

 and bridle 
the wait

the sate

of fate

is still a choice

to ripen with what

Her wine tastes of

in each climbed vine

with me and Her here

in the curved

mentions of

my devotion

in a cupped whisper

when the night

is all nose

and my eyes

are closed

my fingers

are oaring

incessantly
crawling

Her 
tides

I am 

all in

every bite

of Her

I can

ride on
towards
morning
again

EJR ©