By the nowness of true passion—by its blessing, its
lifeline, its hereness;
heirs of desperate love, phantoms of the greater
skies, fumbling in desperation.
To love like dying, to become so involved, stronger
creatures of walls, lakes, dearness.
If loving were easy, as opposed to blind, raw oceans,
deeper understanding.
In finding itself, in moving itself, pieces, puzzles,
pains;
those cyan eyes, jasper winds, valleys filled with
audacity.
So much younger, giving effort was curious, needing
compassion, before jaded rivers; scenery was unique, receiving for its
initiative—dearest satiation.
By melody of its desert, born to create, unaccustomed to
where it begins; many feelings, to unknit cadence, nibbling cherry plums.
