Bona Dea  

Well the snow never touched the ground.
Sidewalk held water reflections of her face.
And the mountains brought husky smoke smells
From their landslide pains.

Well the rain never washed away.
The morning vanilla light through windowed blinds.
And i've seen her face.
At bustop stations through the sounds of voice When a child cries.

In the morning light she lays.
And her hair becomes the grass under your feet.
And her breath becomes winter steam.
And her legs sit withered in the ground, in the shape Of trees.

Well the wind never breathed as hard
But combed the trees crown.
Bringing mustard fire to the streets.
In the shape of auburn hearts and
Diamond wreaths.

Well her lips never fell so silent.
And her voice sounded downtown
Bells.
And caked mud chill on the shoulders
And littered ocean walls
And stucco onyx nipples.

In the afternoon light she naps.
And her back becomes terraces.
And her hands rest levee for sleep.
And in her navel sits the ocean edge.

And when she swallows the mountains.
And she brings her children home.
Back to her soft browned skin.
Sleep shall seep from her tongue
And lick between lips.

And her hands massage our residence flat.
And bring growth from her steps.
And kiss us silent when there's night.
And her eyes, spilled opels in the moon sky.

           We'll rest.
           She'll sleep
           The night edge
           And daybreak in the east.

© 2007 Layne L'Heureux