Mountain Sunday

I’m low, love—imposing upon disposition, and dragging to

a cave a welkin soul. We’re twins, lost and forsook,

found and thriving, piercing shadows and visions. I love a

love so forged, alive and disappearing—a phone ringing

daylight. What zone to enter our memories outlining

a moment of insincerity? We fought and fell a fate of life and

love, leaf and prose. What is our presence: jazzing and

singing, and feeding pigeons? It’s a life of music, as subtle as

breakfast, as rich as gourmet veal. This pain, my love,

lingering and touching souls, ever to challenge—warmth and

bliss. Thus, in part, a search for hurt, despite morning dew;

and ever a preference—the hearth  of God. Why, my love: a

flare for woe, death and tears: if only to touch, fall and rise.

Indeed, this life, a wealth of motion, guiding palms and

inking toes, where forever plagues, probes and drives a knight.