729. of cliffs and angels

Draft of a note written by John to Kyra. Not yet delivered.


The image is of dinner, fine dining, white table cloth, sparkling silver. Crystal in your hand, quarter full of cabernet, the color of blood, full-bodied, oak aged. The bouquet, as flowers distilled within glass and the contrast of the oxblood wine with your golden hair seems of a princess fair, of a queen wise, of a vision dreamed. Your eyes are alive, blue shards glossy of the night, of candle light, of the evening come, of what is not yet done. And in the holding I watch, a simple act, to hold a glass, to bring it to lip, to taste not the hand of time or the sacrifice of vine and soil, sun and rain, but of history, of sunlight past and clouds nevermore, to take upon tongue the mysteries of man, to take of fruit once sought and now given.

You wear a white stole as snow down the vale, of skin white to match, of shadow and light, Ansel Adams graceful. A glimmer of cheek, but not too much, perhaps a quarter moon of light, of dimple blush of smile, of skin smooth as milk, or cream, or as butter warmed in midday sun. Words are shared and across the table hands are held and from a distance others look without staring and what is known need not be said, for how does one say love but in the knowing beyond lip or language, someplace higher than mind, where perhaps souls swim with hearts and angels watch from cliffs. I have this vision. Clear as memory. And I feel the attraction, the gravitational pull to your orbit, the swish of life, of infinity drawn complete. Tell me my dear, you don't feel it too. Tell me what swirls is not your heart and what moves is not the earth but of a soul shimmering in reflection.
__________

Here is the first version simplified from the original. Almost went with it for it seems to fit the sense of dining at night and I like the blues as they reflect the eyes. I better stop before I change my mind. :-D