All it takes is an approach,
And memories begin to sing to me.
Their melodies are darling, lush,
If puzzling in their tempo.

And if ever it moves further,
I am brushed over by joyous calm.
I wish to stretch out everything
And bleed each sweetness dry.

The precious things are mine now;
I've kept them all, breast pocketed.
I thought that if I didn't,
They would wind up in the sea...

... Irretrievable, devoid of lovers' touch.
You'd have cast them,
But I've seen to it
They're not 'disposable as me.

I realize that one day I will cease to be,
As Keats recognized umpteen years before now,
But he knew himself and he didn't know me,
And when Earth spins without me, I'd like to know how.

Will each of my thoughts sink into living minds,
Corrupting the dreams of the children below?
Will every idea then reside in the sky,
Polluting the night with a whimsical glow?

Will my memories be seen through strangers' eyes
Who happen to walk past upon my dead hour?
Will each feeling be honed in on by passersby?
Will each beauteous moment draw up a new flower?

When death is so honest and ugly a thing,
I say truthfully, I don't want to let go.
But e'en on the large chance that death won't grant me wings,
Can I honestly say that I'd first see you slow?

I thought that I would take a dip
In water lapping o'er my eyes;
I thought I'd take a cautious swim
To see the mermaid I despise.

While bedding sharks and cuttlefish,
She calls my love below the air.
So stricken by her beauty,
He ignores her crimes and strokes her hair.

She holds him blind to her misdeeds
And softly beckons yet another--
He's swallowed too much ocean
To return to land-bound lovers.

His fishwife, I wade angry shores
To welcome him back from the sea,
But she's the siren he adores,
And I am just in love with he.

Don't touch me--
Not with hands;
Not with sight;
Not with words, as was your custom.
I've retreated into myself,
And you are not invited to ruin me further;
You may not follow.
So please, don't call out to me
With your voice or your eyes,
Not with your hands or thoughts,
And don't include me in your activities,
Deceitful or otherwise;
Exclusion won't upset me as much as you do.

One Oregon day,
The princess awoke
To discover that outside it snowed,

So she strapped on some boots
And zipped up a large coat
To adventure the cold Oregon roads.

On the bridge was a prince
With bright smiles and kind eyes,
And he asked her, "Why doth the wind blow?"

The princess replied
With her head slightly cocked,
"Just what makes you think I would know?"

He averted his eyes
To the white sky above
And then to the valley below.

He took her small hand
And she pointed out west;
Down cold Oregon roads they will go.