The King and Queen

I'll be the Queen of Fall,
with red oak leaves in my birch wood hair,
and kisses that taste like maple syrup.

I'll dub you my King of Catch,
to hold me when the Winter fae come clawing at my door,
and the glittering wings of winter breaths carry depression through my lungs.

We'll make love on drizzling April afternoons,
and warm June evenings, when even the sun is reluctant to go to sleep.
We'll have princesses and princes
of Spring and Summer
who's eyes glitter like frost on willow limbs,
and minds bloom like violet petals.

Thunderclaps will be our drum beat,
when we hold concerts for the cicadas and whispering grass.
Lightning, our pyrotechnics,
dazzling the night sky,
with our heads thrown upwards to preach to the stars.

Northern lights will be our nightlights,
dew drops and low-lying fog, our cover,
that whispers around our twisted bare limbs,
as we wrap ourselves around each other,
to shelter, and shiver with rapture.

We'll press flowers in classic novels,
and ones never published,
like gentle kisses in thanks to the authors who, in turn, kissed our minds.
Leave roses and wildflowers to perfume the yellowed pages,
gently losing their color as they lose themselves in the stories.

We'll take to the Earth from which we grew,
replant our minds, stained by thoughts of fancy cars and skyscraper offices.
Watch the fragile green shoots, birthed from the dark soil, blossom into realization,
as we find what really matters in sun brushed forests floors,
and each others open arms.

We'll hold dear what really matters:
Kisses blown from worn palm, to flushed cheek, and deposited in pockets for lonely nights later on.
The taste of the sweet sweat that dews on lovers' inner thighs.
The feeling of your heart pruning its newly found wings, as you stand at the peak of a mountain who's feet you had admired that morning.
The sound and scent of absolute silence, when you can hear your soul whispering its dreams to your tingling nerves.
Love.
Inner beauty.
The gibberish that children speak, when torn between learning, and forgetting the language of gods.

We'll learn what really matters,
and we'll hold with us, until we die, these personal axioms, learned only by delving into the life that has been disregarded as archaic.

We'll set our roots in ancient soil,
burrowing into this Earth that was never meant to be overrun by metal beasts,
until we finally bow, like wilting flower stems, to the caressing hands of time.

The trees will hold a moment of silence
for the daring ones who took flight from normality,
as the sparrows whisper our funeral dirge in mournful whistles.

The Earth will gather us back into its arms,
and we'll lay beneath the silver birch,
our names carved into its skin,
"The King and Queen of Fall and Catch Me."