I'll go out to the summer for you, friend,
lay amongst the wildflowers blowing in the sacred wind,
you like a lover oceans away. There's the building, though, where you
are sleeping, and the hearth burning on and on and on, keeping you.

I am restless without you. You are the air to my passion and I the breadth of your flame:

consume me, Helen. You know what I say beneath the ire for which I am named,

and I crumble into you on my final sleepless night. You held off death for months so we could be together one last time,

seeping into each other as you become a saint in midsummer

in a dream, the frozen expanse brims with colder water

but her and her father stood still as the water hummed below them, seeped through the cracks

a voice caught in the throat, a psalm for this frozen bay

as winter swells with yearning for the sparrow, for the stream.

Shadows dance along walls
Cold, undulating fire
Threatens to suffocate
My thoughts,—I go on walks
Outside, the golden leaves
Know how to be better.

A dormant forest sees
Balance between forces,
Ever-changing seasons,
The purposeful movement
Of critters and giants.

Is the forest moral?
Wolves know moderation
Better than most of us.
My reason breaks:
Do humans still bother
With being good
These days?

Hillsides of endless green roll
like clouds before a storm,
but they are stilled by the mountain.
And within that valley, a boy no more than what life's made of him yet:
he will go on to foreign places and make them home,
grow into a place that he does not know,
build things, and a family. And he told me of that merry place
locked into the ether,
where a teacher made honey from the bees and gave a jar to his mother,
a gift. For nothing, for they were poor and so was the teacher,
and the honey was gold in his mother's hands.