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.
From star to star, from molten blob to smoldering ice, so many journeys from hot to cold to get things just right. Ah, so many fields of foliage — waves of miracle — each unfolding in their time to the sun, wave overlapping waves. When I wonder at my shoots, or fuss at how graceful my leaves, or worry how straight my tendrils, I gaze around and reflect wherein I am a part of; I am beautiful because I am a part of you.
Oh, why slug through these miserable lessons when I could tip–tap with joy? — or, perhaps that’s the lesson.
Those schemes: so much distraction — paper-cut smarts and then up in smoke. Life is written all over my hands. The ink: so much blood.