Living Tree Poetry

I felt the sun as your lips on my brow. 
The birdsong your voice in my ear. 
The breeze your reach toward me.

Who does not want to be loved 
by their beloved. 

A religion without the flesh,
the senses, 
is like a kiss blown in the air.

I would imagine you here. 
It is for me, the lens 
through which you enter. 

And touch, 
touch is what makes you real,
this sun on my skin. 

This means you make yourself felt, 
seen. 

- reflections in the warmth of the sun 

Ana Lisa de Jong
Living Tree Poetry
September 2020