Dipping our bread in oil tins we talked of morning peeling open our rooms to a moment of almonds, olives and wind when we did not yet know what we were. The days in Mallorca were alike: footprints down goat-paths from the beds we had left, at night the stars locked to darkness. At that time we were learning to dance, take our clothes in our fingers and open ourselves to their hands. The veranera was with us. For a month the almond trees bloomed, their droppings the delicate silks we removed when each time a touch took us closer to the window where we whispered yes, there on the intricate balconies of breath, overlooking the rest of our lives.

She sees the mountain upside down.

With her long hair sweeping the fallen leaves she swings like a pendulum.

From the lagoon at sunset a hundred sparrows fly away.

Wishing them back she whistles softly. And downward she falls into the sky.

Remembering a girl on the swing who fell into the sky and vanished.

love is a place & through this place of love move (with brightness of peace) all places

yes is a world & in this world of yes live (skilfully curled) all worlds

A prefect poem, on love and "yes", both of which are hard to do and get to.