If I were a gardener
and you were the land,
I would draw sweet stems
over the ground of you,
with leaves drawn out
each by each
with the sunlight of my touch,
a blossoming kiss atop each one.
If I were a woodwright
and you were a tree,
I would lay you down gently,
remove your bark piece by piece
to slowly reveal the gold below.
I would run my hands along you
and envision all the beauty
my hands could make with you.
If I were a potter
and you were soft clay,
I would ask you quietly
what you wished to be,
move and dance with you
a pas d’deux of shoulders and wet hands,
spinning and dreaming
until we are both empty vessels,
waiting for fire and filling.