Taking You to Galiano

I love the smell of the trees there.
How the ocean and the evergreens mix.
It is something like magic.
Magic. And then the moonlight.
creeping up, past the stand of trees to touch that sky
that I have seen a thousand times grow darker
then floods with stars.
Azure black purple.

I hear the frogs and the whisper of wind
and the chorus of crickets and the two lovers
who have snuck down to touch secretly,
their backs against the rough logs of the pier.

The breeze up off the water is warm and sings
of things far off, the glass balls from Japan,
messages from other beaches, green and amethyst,
and sometimes if you are lucky, blue.

I brought you with me, to this place that means
we must navigate those boulders above and
the overhang of arbutus, but here you sit,
perched above the phosphorescent water.

I stand and turn, slowly remove my dress,
slipping it to the stones.
The moonlight kisses me, as I turn
to dive into black water; the stars
fracturing, the sea turning bright.

And now, I am a siren that calls you,
danger and desire in the cold.
Come, make love to me
suspended above the kelp, the water
touching my skin how you should;
you rise to darkly watch from a distance,
jealous of another man’s fingers
even if it is God.
(But he alone does not leave bruises
the color of night sky.)