A kiss just a kiss until you
   Find the one you love,
A hug is just a hug until
you find the one you're
   always thinking of.

A dream is just a dream
   Until it comes true,

Love was just a word until
   they day I met you.

Discarded and forgotten, denied and rejected love was taken and placed on a tree. On a day that was dark and somber when all head turned away a new name was given to love you see. Sent down by his father, to accomplish the father's will. The son of God Yeshua, Jesus died upon that Hill. When all of the blood was shed and his last breath came at that moment love had a new name.

.
Flowers so rare and fine,
Missing from this dry world,
Lost, unwatered, unseen, yet
No ones and none despaired,
They then planted their garish
Seed in blot sun, most sodden,
Soppy soils sprayed which fell
On the plainest, most commoner
Grounds, such fertile dirt, wrought,
Then, all who came to view where
But gaggles of proud mediocrity
Who arrived to revel and preen,
Unjust, they remade this earth,
Once lively, to be lame, what
Celebrations they now need
What praises they do crave,
Sadly, they could not know,
A flower for the weeds.

.
In early morning,
Mist revolving joys,
Everything so glorious,
The grey fox on the shores,
The great blue herons,
Light houses of dawn,
Arching into heavens,
Overlooking all souls,
Such colours by the sounds,
Lilting in the scores of clover,
Of bees notating and staffs,
Sway of staved dragonflies,
Dropped dew belled in petals
And whole world lathed
With harmonious light.

Across the silvered pond
Were deep woods without name,
For journeys into wrested sleep
And light poured, raining
Through the spring leaves,
Staining the glass of the sky,
Ordaining the stationed hearts,
Held by the still deer, who walked
On waters, wading into sun,
Each night destroyed
By freshness and rays,
The mottled waking meadows,
Green as ever growing,
More alive then old legend,
O to be a pilgrim with eyes,
Opening!

To be shy lord in the fortresses
Of fallen trees and savour such
Piney sense as rooted sassafras,
The smells of mosses and leaf,
On the shores of the painted
Turtles, shaded by lurching trees
Mushroomed over shallows, sunning
And hear the foghorned frogs
Alerting the dark gleeming, red-
Winged blackbirds to their reeds
Among the rocks a child
Skips, hums upon.

So breaking was the boy
In the hood of the pond,
More alive, golden, than a star,
Round that very crested shire,
In the berry vines of ripeness,
Winding marshes at play,
Where blush of wild ducks
Endlessly saunter and rooks
Dot the airs circling eternal.

Now in ages past,
After, pond enameled
So far away still sings
Of childhood to come,
For any lost soul who waits,
Beyond cries, a warbles lulling,
What songbirds might ring,
For newborns who break,
Ashed in sands of the quick,
Into some future paradise,
Births of new days dawning,
Rung through, dominions of the sun.

.
Sun startles the lovers who lie,
Crammed in a single bed.
Once the sun blanketed doves,
Each day a wrap for godlings
And the night was a sea of hope
For the lonely, lost, drowning.
Now the morning is a shroud
That eyes shy away from it,
They look for each other—
Out windows murky into day,
But night never really leaves,
The untouched skin breaking,
The unshared fade of breaths
Untaken, unwound fingers,
Trapped in open rooms
And light revealing,
Cold uncovered,
Lovers in morning.

.
We are born,
There is some joy
Lighting a tiled room
And the first cry echoes
In the spray, sterile hollows.
A woman simpers, flush
And torn, whimpers, softly,
Under the phosphorescences
Of terror and delight, where
A man sees his own doom
Fast approaching as he weeps
With measured happiness
And one foot by the door.

Little creature, welcome
To the world, make up
Your presence known,
Bulbous and brightly
As melons in the sun,
Waiting to be plucked
With another lover
Indifferent as you,
Arbitrary as any name
Grasped for, looked up,
Placing you into this
Home of strangers,
This globe of shadow,
Shining dimly, eyeing,
To name you quick,
Holey, somewhat
Real.

.
Blueberry picking was no chore.
In the hoary-head of blue things,
Stuff was easy, and ripe for the picking,
Bunching blue-baubles in baskets over-ripened
Of berries.   On special mornings, due southwest
In lazy hills, round my home, — bells  
Were breaking, in quiet sections of the Canton,
Massachusetts woods, and playing by them,
We rounded blue notes, some friends and I,  
Plucked-out tunes to the breeze, on leafy-
Instruments, and pulled our weight, into moil-moisted  
Bushels, (one batch of blue was more than a ton  
Of any other fruit!)  
Toiling, till the sky would peek  
And spill its hue.  Foragers were we, as teaming
Minnows round a polk-a-dot reef, feasting on some great  
Blue-Fin’s roe, brave savages, painted in the glow of ember-
Light, of burnished yellows, and bushy-blanched browns
Drenched by dew and dappled in the stipple
Of sun-brushed fire, all the colours making patterns, even  
Box Turtles knew.   How merry it was we made our labors,
Why it was wicked!  And muggy from the heat of cool  
Indigo stars, we squenched our thirst, in glugs  
Of kisses, each following the greatest by far,  
And one soft day, we did notice the crown
Of a Princess, set on top of each full  
Noble-blooded faery-pearl dropped
As if to commemorate all  
The things that were worth  
Knowing, stuff that was ripe,  
Easy, and rapt
In blue.

.
Her languid voice
Drew me in, drooped,
And tentacle hair wrapping,
My feet fell before hers,
Sinking in the faraway lost pool,
The mortality in the sands,
And even the stars, snuffed
Out of darkness and fire
Became the light of the world,
The hushed day breaking
With welling waters and salt.
How can dream be lived,
Within dream?  Must I swear
As I fall into bliss?

.
The sea gulls – who fly in wanton
To the horizon, are a spirits
calling, are sea songs falling
To my mind they falter – as I
Have known such cozen to the sun
That falls each day nor do I see
It rising.  My world is weighted,
Under, pass the lining of the quick,
By the mounted cloud which hangs silver
Over the plated night. The owl,
Whose eyes of Janus tails, when wanes
The lids, tied to crescent holey
Whelm of malevolent moon,

Praise over me, with wooly wings,
Is silent as shadow.  I may strut or run
But they do come as the shadows will
With cahooting sun, and the blotting
Bald faced moon, chiaroscuro –
The days feign and heaven pales under
The wake of the luna sea.

       In darkest daylight
I shamble toward the flat horizon
Where the seabirds fly, till their ends,
I take two-faced my faulty comfort
As I see them, falter, falling, yet never
Do they touch the gloaming ground.