The Fieldstone Review

These are not Metaphors (These were not Dreams)

above the third eye
in the pensive face that sees
we carved our initials (you plus me)

between the thirsty roots
two-hands deep
we buried our treasure (a falcon on a quarter
an owl from a box of tea
the stones we carried with us
the worry doll you made for me
foreign coins, domestic marbles
pearls from different seas
a silicate sliver
from our secret island splintered)

we washed our lucky stones
that we carry with us still
in the stream
that rushes
through the park
in the painting
that hangs
beside the bed
where we
make love (you plus me)

these are not metaphors
these are not analogies
these are things
we did for real (for real
not a dream)