I relished your boyish whimsy: wanting, at one and the same time, to do no evil and to index everything. I snapped at a shrub to give to you, wondering if you would tell me whether it was shrouded in those same leaves of old that crown a good sauce. You guffawed and tutored me to consider man–made products: I would do well to avoid flowers and puppies. I lay in a patch of Quaker Ladies near the water as the Spring gusts garnished me with pollen. I strolled barefoot home in the mud as the rain came. You turned white when I asked the meaning of Stockton Gala Days; you produced the most delicious drops of technicolor: something in the red, green, and blue pixels of your blank screen shinning through the ensnared dew still waiting to connect technology to nature. I longed to turn you around to give you a picture of yourself, but then the moment would have been lost and somehow the algorithms that embed don’t capture it all.
Once upon a time, just blobs of cold. We know better now our modern sensibilities understanding each flake: a little bit of dust through hot and cold from such great heights, a natural growth of crystalline nature unique through its travels often imperfect its simple structure making it glaringly obvious, melting on human contact.
I have been only projecting feelings upon the wall of my life. It is a strange movie. I cut myself loose, turn myself wild. These raw feelings, man need not witness. These raw feelings, I need them for a real life, to tread them. To tread the path; to be in the sunlight.
The gentle, arched wob-wob, she advances step-step up the lake. There is no one here except the mini-Lochnesses momentarily periscoping up, facing the wind as it whips up waves. Oh, another follows step for step in step. I realize this is Spring. Briefly, I wonder if the tension is only my speculating: she will yield without a fight or they are already friends as well as lovers. It is Spring and each walk step-step up this long lake and it would take all day; no, never finish, they way they walk step-step. He leans into flight, glides purposefully down the lake, over the hill, and is gone. Perhaps she didn’t notice; perhaps she felt a mere ripple of a flap amid the wind; perhaps she was only looking one step ahead as she continues step-step. She eventually settles in and he returns, wings splayed, cruising to the other end like he has some business to attend to.
That sweet, hot spirit wound up in beauty. Oh, delicate possession, to tenderly touch, to stroke, to let loose those pent-up sighs. You demand I separate the spiritual from the physical: that is my desire.
My fire, my little fire, I tend, tend, tend to you. You are not ablazin’ o’er the earth, but you are enough to crackle with heat, to sustain a heart, to provide a hearth, to roast marshmallows over, to lick the ribs of embers with quiet flame, to entrance me into a reverie of my inner mysteries.
Not that everything is good, but there is good in everything. Patience and such faith cherry–pick the tartest sweetness. That’s why Aunt Sally’s pies go right to the heart.
Though we shuck it, let us bless the whole wheat: it yielding the kernel and from thence the whole wheat.
I kneel upon your lips, hold my hand to my face, kiss my fingers, and press my little hand–kiss upon the stub tip of your upper lip.
I light my candle because it exists. Damn candle, brightness piercing through my tears.