For Catherine

Spring flowers always bloom underneath the sun,
but they too have to sit in the twilight of the moon.

The first time we locked lips
in a dream,
the garden holding the fruit with the knowledge of good and evil
had opened it gates and invited us in,
 past the waterfall dripping honeydew
through the vineyards of grapes glistening fuchsia,
I held your hand.

Harps resonated through rays from the sky,
as the blades of grass underneath our naked feet
bounced lightly to the pulses becoming nature.

Softly I brushed your auburn hair
while peering into the eyes that opened those gates
to the world of conception.
It was then I understood the nuances of time,
and the puzzles of reality,
as nothing more than trivial distractions
from the ultimate truth of a man and his lover.

That was my first dream,
delicate, distant, and sincere.
I often deprive myself of sleep,
hoping for that rare moment
when consciousness slips from my grip,
and the cardinal red roses of paradise
grow before my eyes.