Flicks of Hair

Trevor Reeves

grass,
running underneath one's feet
and the real deep blue, sun,
colour of a lion's mane,
tautology of eyes
meeting in mid-sky;

there are no one-way streets
in these clouds. We are forever
meeting our own angles
frequenting our own
patches of secret earth.

The way you flick your
hair, like that;
indeterminately wrinkling
your little bird's egg eyes;
blue-speckled:

you are of nature, in the
middle of the
hourglass, enraptured and

enlightening me; pouring down
through me,
into my very soil.

The 2River View, 1_4 (Summer 1997)