The gypsy that I was...

So I'm back to the Velvet Underground

Back to the floor that I love

To a room with some lace and paper flowers

Back to the gypsy that I was to the gypsy that I was...

  

Back to the solitude of my home after our first campout of the year.  Back from long gypsy journeys, forest winds, mossy stones, gypsies names, old legends, great joys and small sorrows too. My heart aches for things I cannot understand or define.  My womb yearns for the fruits it nourished and the bones of my bones, a spirited little gypsy girl named Ariadna and the beautiful, ancient soul secreted in the ageing body of a certain Tallulah.  Stories.

If it was up to me, we'd only ever have dreams and gypsy voyages.  We'd have always the cobalt-dust heart of summer skies, blush-pink roses, tender breezes, birds for friends, wings for arms, the opening hour of gentle, glorious light before the start of day clambering up on us, the silence of the mid-morning garden, the taste of mint in the tip of my tongue, French lilac scent, sourdough bread with cream cheese and apricot jam, the quality of sunlight pressing on the edge of another horizon, ancient stories told by the old ones atop hayrides and wind-blown hair on a cool May afternoon. The Moon-eyed people and pre-Columbian ruins to accompany you.  Heartbeat pressed against heartbeat for encouragement and aid on cold, windy starlight nights while keeping stories afresh under the wing of my heart. 

So I'm back to the Velvet Underground

Back to the floor that I love
To a room with some lace and paper flowers
Back to the gypsy that I was to the gypsy that I was...

(to Tessa... and our time together)