I'm in such a good mood.
The words are coming easy again,
and I feel like a child let out into the yard
after a winter of snow and storms,
giggling in a mad rush for the good swing.
There are no more bars,
no more nights, cheeks pressed to the glass,
leaving a hot imprint on the facade of the world.
And I am out with the butterflies,
wild flowers and sunlight
like fingers on my skin.
This must be what Neruda meant,
hot passion of innocence,
in love with the very act of being alive.
Childhood erotica in the way the metal of the slide
burns my legs as I slip down, hot silk, silent velvet.
The feel of the grass on my cheeks,
fresh cut and smelling of air and light
and a man.