Kayaking

Sitting inches from warm river water
I paddle against the current. Pulling
and scraping bottom I dock to climb
stone terraces where water spills
laughing into black pools below.
Sun echoes off  walls smoothed
and sculpted by wind. Hundreds
of years worth of wind still scribing
away hard edges. I want to lay my
cheek against the firm bulges
above me.

Dry wind peels. Howling wind
scrapes. Wet wind makes walls
weep. Hot wind sucks dry. Driven
wind crumbles. Swirling wind
tumbles odd sections away forming
castle fortress parapets.

Now comes a caressing wind that
pursues until the rocks and I both
splay our inward parts wide open.
Left cleft, without scars or a hint of
being forced, I wait for water to
gush and green things to sprout
from here.