Willow man

You are my fourth month.
You are my lunacy when spoken of in ancient Farsi.

I take you and I wrap you all around of my bankings and
you never fail me.
You have moulded yourself into the role
of protector
(so delicately)
and I watch
in sleep-ridden awe
as you converse
with the moon.

When I climb up on top
of the top
of your sky tickling
limbs
and dive into
the water
that you
soothe
underneath you
I do not drown
like the one has drowned
over and over
in melancholy words
and in haunting watercolours.

Rather, I dance
and I sing
to the birds above me
and to the ebb and flow beneath me;
of your meaning.