Summer heaven, beside the creatures
And the leaves grow, churning stem and pulp
There I fall, the wetted rock and willow
Aligned in twos from whence I stand

The sunset ruse, and each year after
With mother's tame, worn clothes with creases
Hasting days, beneath the Willows
Endowed with memories I release

Through sickness I live like this egg
-who must restructure himself  
           within a cracked shell
Both torn of safety and of innocence
And cresting through the flux of chaos
An amalgamation of both worlds  
           ever more foreign than last

My thoughts of her, each so nimble,
         and each the feather upon a dove
And as they pluck from their root,
         they might fall onto thought-soil,
          or into wishing well
Each tip the sharpest of spades

And with such rearing point I imagine my bliss
          Feather pen etching onto tissue paper
Searing with truth through which there lies,
          the poem of my affection

Concrete within a score of willingness and longing,
A crux through which her breath reigns over my speech
           she sings-