Tag: heart book

The most important thing
 about a loved thing
 is it is loved

Oh Universe,
how am I so lucky to be your lover?
When I breathe, I take you in;
you take up my exhalations.
You decorate your forest of curls
 with fireflies,
don a cap of full moon;
in the heavens of your eyes,
 your soul flashes
  around me.

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.

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.

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.

To possess an artist’s canvas
 I make space upon my wall
 and put up something crafted
 so well and is so bold
 it never gets old.
An artist has the whole world
 upon which to hang.
 Her most prized possession
  is new canvas
     or a person
     or a new tatoo.