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Report From Mariposa Beach. Intergalactic Finance Minister
We awake to the sound of crashing waves. We’re sleeping on a large Persian rug set on a sandy beach. Large tapestries of gold and scarlet overhead. An ocher mist of dawn surrounds us.
Your tumbled hair falls around the divan and cushions.
Your eyes.
Emerald gardens of ephemeral power.
Strength, power, and safety.
Storm clouds and shelter.
Spring time weather.
Winter warmth.
Verdant energy.
“Let’s have a swim.”
“Good idea.”
You stand up and arch your back, arms to the heavens, stretching your vibrant form.
We watch the arriving neap tide.
After a prayer and a kiss we enter the water.
We swim through the waves past the breakers. In the oncoming swells you wrap yourself around my shoulders. I hold you in my arms. The rhythm of the rising and falling waves sets the mood. We look out to the horizon. Your emerald essence twinkling in the new day light, your golden mane floating around us, your lips like honeyed dew drops dipped in sea salt.
Report From Mariposa Beach. Intergalactic Finance Minister