here she is: peacock colours, honey glint, coy glaze, mouth frothed. do you understand her? (you don’t — yet it stammers, your heart, quick.) she’s not alive, so why do you feel this warmth, this rush of quiet, under the pulse of morning glory, evening sun? you give her your hand, tentative, and she slips through your fingers; but finally you open yourself, naked and fat, vulnerable and, now, at peace, enter her, indulge in her, and she responds with a dance, to not just satisfy but fill you, to not just reach out but embrace you, to not just follow but lead you. you side-step, sway like these olive branches beckoning. in crescendos you move with her, her with you, skin and body full of skyward praise, scattering, like petals, teardrops and wind. after, in your stillness and her consistency, her incoming comfort, outpouring catharsis, she breathes, coos, secures your silent piece of blooming spirit.