I tried to write a post on the 'Quote of the Day' thread. Instead, I flowed a tongue of voice far too poetic to be suitable (since I'm trying to keep poetry to a minimum on that thread). I got lost in the power of 'focus', the Latin 'foci' that is fire, the hearth.
From the bottom of your post, climbing the ladder of song,
Passing over everything with whispers of feeling, thumb so delicate and gentle,
Evening cradled in the dustings of my eyelashes,
Fragrant throat collecting, gathering and spreading the grass at dawn.
I shall loaf the music of your writing, talking the noiseless splendour,
Warming myself at the convergence of sound,
Sloughing cloudy ink to arrive at the beginning,
Talking the impossible, clinging breast-to-breast, harmonic plenty without evasion,
Loafing the crinkle of autumn leaves, the crackle of ever-returning spring,
The winter chill drooping fronds of pearlescent snow,
The summer thaws, cycling the dust of age, trebling the splendour of all that was,
Seasons in my heart, organing my body, vibrating so sure,
Issuing pollens of sound from the floodgates electric.
Loafing eternity with a human sound, smiling at the house I see,
The abode of joyous Being I see,
The house so welcoming I see,
The house so empty of ink and so full of language I see,
The carpets soft, the decanters lush with grape, the floors freshly cedared.
Opening the door, I flare my nostrils,
Scent the odours of my home,
Grass, pollen and the breath I am mad for,
The breath I fit to touch, the breath I yawp my glee for.
A thrush fluffs its feathers as I fire the hearth with flame,
Braiding orange, yellow and red, twistings of human song,
Colours shining in the wink of my flaring spectacles.
Tongues of fire twining the luxuriant melt of my mouth,
Holding my head back, throat stretched and happy,
Gurgling the satisfaction of the dim and dark,
Long and unvalved, the music of celebration.
As silent as the sun I speak,
Crooning midnight to those alone, weaving the dreaming universe,
Resting in the crook of an arm, slumbering as the hour grows fat and long.
Outside, you loafe the golden dim, irresistible, drawn to the house I love,
Beginning to clear your throat, approaching the house I adore
Beginning to clear your throat, valved hummings growing so sure.
Hearth crackling, singing and awaiting the humanity I love,
Grass blooming the awakenings of my smile across a gentle door,
A fire warming the cedars, rich, inkless love, curling joyous breath.