15/16. groundswell

sometimes you make me a babbling
brook, quiet in its pebbled curling over
itself,  like the silky coos of infants
basking in the roundness of their
contentment 

sometimes you make me a waterfall,
pouring and thunderous, swirling
outside inside the pounding labyrinth
of my skin

sometimes you make me an ocean,
spread against beginning or ending,
vast that is void, full bellied emptied
open and bowing to your immeasurable
beauty

sometimes you make me a single rain
drop, small and reflected by your
rhythmic reaching for every thirst that
calls out to you

sometimes you make me a storm
cloud,  patiently bursting, and ready
for free fall

sometimes you make me a spring,
trickling the crystal clear inheritance
of your love plump lips and there’s
no separation for gratitude to travel

always you make me a body carved
in awe of your devotion, how you wrap
the universe around a prayer that
seems hand-picked just for me

all I want is this

sometimes you come still at dawn 
a hush tucked between each cell
reaching all the way back to our first
singular inhale 

sometimes you slip in slow mounting
a tune like the slow open turn of a faucet 
lifting the fountain of my vocal chords 

sometimes you clothe me in tickles
humming each hair follicle, in tiny
waves of goose bumps coiling at
|attention 

sometimes I wake in a gust of you
scattering the paperwork of my
distractions the swirl sweet, consuming
making a gentle mess of my resistance 
to you having your way

sometimes you cover me like candy
over fresh fruit, the sticky handprints of
reckless play staining my dresses, in
bright splashes of you dripping from
my chin 

sometimes I am submerged in the
weight of you, a volcano of your name
calling out

sometimes you come still at dawn 
and I am you