Windmills

In every landscape painting I walk through,
I feel the brush of you,
the gentle way the hair along
my neck is lightly moved

by skimming fingers and
lips that barely touch,
my flesh tingling,
all senses heightened by this love.

The tall green grasses sway
and carry my open palm
to where yours is waiting
and has been all along.

And when I turn from the coast
and freefall into the blue of your eyes,
we sink and float together in the bliss
on a blanket beneath an endless sky.

The windmills keep silently
turning, propelling time,
but we are alone in this canvas land,
and the tides are on our side.