I cannot sleep, thinking:

I cannot give you short, bittersweet, sad, delighting, whimsical love poems.

I can give you short, bittersweet, sad, delighting, whimsical life poems.

In cold, rushing spring and river waters,
ash and water-borne soil mix.

A voyage endless.
We too, our voyage.
Endless. End less.

Examine the crevices and ravines that
are the map of your hands.

Your voyage's log, memory storage.

Indestructible.
In the clouds's moisture,
ever recycling, it is all kept, stored.

Your hands well recall
the very first caress,
the softness of the baby skin,
the sweet of the lips,
thirty some long years after.

Dare to dispute?

The original animus,
the anima and the persona combination
the byproduct of blood and tissue,
some call spirit,
some call soul,
is matter that cannot be
destroyed,
nor created.

It only voyages on,
the conservation of mass,
our body, our enlivement,
our spark.

In cold, rushing spring and river waters,
ash and water-borne soil admix.

From this natural brew, renewal.

The voyage is the resurrection
Life ever after.
Life even before.
Life for ever
lasting.

Our voyage is without destination.

Our voyage is our destination.
Our voyage is our resurrection.

Endless. Perpetual.
Eternal.

5:46 AM