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.