by David Clear

She was in the water, and the water was everywhere.

My consciousness was the water, our eyes met as part of the water.      

Beneath the stain glass veneer a series of enormous bolts held a large piece of metal in place, the threads being consumed by rust, ugliness beneath beauty.

But then her eye drew me closer to the surface, to the cool cerulean blue waters of the Caribbean, to the silken yellow hand-sewn gown of an ancient Chinese empress, to the alabaster white of the symmetrical cities of an advanced alien race. I called to her and she called to me but there was no sound our ears were capable of sharing. Until.

The bolts were sprayed with mists of healing oil, the threads cleansed and then spun counterclockwise so that the metal plate loosened, then quickly fell to the sea bottom. Trapped stagnant water within poured forth yet quickly cleansed itself as well as dissipating any debris. Orchids and azaleas unfurled and slowly began to rise to the surface.

Such a pure sweet current carried me to the surface as well, lazily and easily as waterlilies posing for an impressionist. My newborn atoms bubbled forth upon a new-formed surface, only to dissolve, re-form and reshape themselves ceaselessly as they melded with her eternally unique expression both stunningly simple and engrossingly complex.

We were revealed in our rapture. Rolling, rushing, reveling forth, we gave of ourselves utterly. We abandoned the idea for the reality, the depiction for the decision. The decision to once, now and forever surrender to the inimitable, inexorable call of the eyes in the stained-glass window. And the eyes in the lotus blossom pond. And all the colors, shapes, sounds and sensations that absorbed all from the planet’s antediluvian tectonic plates to the diminutive ladybug crossing the picture’s wooden frame.

A new universe fertilized with each of her tiny steps.

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Writers Bio

Many years writing, also many years (house)painting. Seems the ideal combination. Now retired from the latter hoping to do much more of the former. e-book link: Dreaming at the Speed of Sound. Thinly veiled bio.

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