Lixouri

To be fare, 

I could not be aware 

of mine 

but to have gazed into thine? 

Nourish my soul with your essence 

of innocence.

Press your lips to mine 

until morning breaks. 

Allow me to lie down 

and hold your subtle shapes

sculpted by wind

swept hands

and stroke your breast 

to rest 

at the edge of your 

Ionian shores

with your loveliness pressed 

to my core. 

Your roar 

can be heard 

in the thickets of your raised spine, 

as in mine, 

and vibrates in the beetle’s whisper 

under your olive trees

in Lixouri

where oils pour

as golden as our mother’s rays 

and restores.