Wednesday, May 8, 2013

Mythical Mysts, Musical Musings

His touch was soft .  My lips touching his skin brought back memories from childhood of  my magic wand, velvet and organic. It was made of a young Pussy Willow branch, which I methodically used to carress my cheeks with the soft buds, safe touch.  Mother…

James was kind and shy in his approach.  His delicate ivory skin brushed again mine accidently as we walked side by side down the crowded San Franciscan street.
I received his honeysuckle scent as he walked by my side.  His bouquet fought for territory amongst the city smells of strong, black coffee and hot asphalt.
Before us the wind swirled in the black and white magic of Walker Evans, harkening back to a time where young lovers required a chaperone.
Our chaperone was the ringing church bells across a green city park meadow.  We sat upon a small bench leaning up against one another.  His hair glowing under the sunrays.  His eyes wide like a doe’s, so generous and innocent.

Our hearts full now with bygone days. 
Days when life seemed simpler and innocent.

Here he was, holding me safe up against his body. His innocence filled my ears with a softer bell. It was his soul opera emerging, a demure echo from his heart.

Fog, Lincoln Park, Legion of Honor, #0538-7D

© 2013  James W. Murray, all rights reserved.

(click image for larger version)

Details: October 14, 2012; Canon 7D; f/9 @ 1/250 sec; ±0 EV; ISO 500;Canon EF 70-300mm f/4-5.6L IS USM @ 300mm


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