In light of last days—
Mountains breaking through the clouds,
Song in the birds' flight . . .

A soul is captured,
I have only memories,
The locks of her hair.

North winds, clouds gathering,
My mind paddles in sky river,
Like snow geese or swans.

In the eyes' corner,
Dull and deep, drenched
In dream with hair running
Within the longest song of breeze,
Where bones decay and flesh
Evaporates, there and when,
Cleansed in flash, eternal
Flame, is where we met.

Bright stellar blue jays—
Out of autumn skies they come,
  .  .  .  Angels with blue wings.

Winters without her—
Snow on boughs of old fir tree,
  .  .  .  Weight of empty arms.

The moon held me down,
Then your shining face swept me,
Now, I rise with sun.

You've asked me how can I see a future when love, in all
Its numinous beauty, is waning?
I reply, the immortal stars still shine above the veil of clouds.
You say, why are the salmon swimming to their pools of origin
Only to die as they spawn?  Only to die?
I tell you their love is unconditional, like mine.
You ask me did the giant sequoia know it was shelter for the burning grasses
When they walked from the seas?  I reply yes they knew.
You question me about the lofty snow cranes that fly over the Himalayas
And I reply by describing
How the priestly flocks, chanting on their mission, honk—
Announcing the mantle steps to the heavens.
You inquire about the elephantine manatees gracing the shallow banks
And wonder if the sea mermaids remember their lives beyond the latitudes
Of capricorn and cancer?
Or you’ve discovered in the wind a new reasoning as to why
The talons of the paired eagles lock in midair as they court?
You want to understand the nimbus garden, ocean slate, of lake Titicaca
Where resides the Andean sea horse gliding above the clouds?
The whales that circle dance in unison collecting krill?
The noetic display of the birds of paradise, the songs of nameless creatures
Playing in the wilderness like a forgotten melody only lovers lips remember?

I want to tell you that true love knows this, that life in its
Prismatic shimmer is all the myriad colours of infinite existence wrapped
In time to the sublime structure of white and bones.  I must tell you
That the flower is mighty in its opening, the humming bird is a sorcerer
Who needles ambrosia with vortex wings weaving his way to the Gods.

But I am nothing beside your disbelief which has arrived, before
I can even imagine the sweet awakening, like doom, my shell is the iridescent
Hollow of the one eyed Abalone, discarded in the deep fathoms
Of the ocean pressures.

I swim the tides as you do, investigating
The endless tendril seas,
And in my chest, during the night, I woke up empty,
The only thing treasured, a golden face
Trapped inside my dreams.

                                                                  
                                                             ­­                       — after Neruda

The ruddy footworn path is wild and long,
Tracing down all of my woodland years,
Shorter in front, longer behind, fading song,
Was its form cut by me or the grazing deer?

She— light years away,
We speak without inflections,
  .  .  .  Split infinities.

Boughs under heaven,
Birds sing praises to the sun,
  .  .  .  Golden apples fall.

She rose to greet me,
Flowing hair, sparkle eyes spoke,
Poem before words.