Dorée, a little bit of gold upon the world
A sun ray amongst the clouds.
Even when Spring fell to Summer
And the sun moved further South
Did the light of the sun still reach
          This cold Northern Realm.
Sail on golden girl,
          I’ll be your bridge to Texas.
Yet even the sun fades for hours a day;
Without the sun slowly darkness claws
And the little bit of gilding you
          Wrought in my life faded.
Golden leaves in autumn now begin to fall;
The sun gone –
          Twilight began a year or so ago -
I awake to the gilding of you missing;
          Gone, taken by the wind.
Sail on golden girl,
          I can no longer follow.
Dorée, always a little bit of gold in my life:
A sunbeam across a dark sky,
          Left a little bit darker without you.
The places we shared will never be the same;
          Many are already gone or changed.
Could you hug me one last time
                    From heaven?
Forever golden, Dorée. Forever golden.

People ask why do I love them
And I ponder how to answer…

My love for thee is a tree:
I know not why I grow here.
I know only I found what I needed
For my roots to go deep,
My leaves to bolster in radiance;
I drink and am filled.

But not only for me do I grow
For now the deer have shade
And bark to muse during grassless winter
And homes for squirrels to run about.

Like Elves I am to
those small creatures:
Near timeless, near immortal,
Tall and Slender, ever reaching.

Yet I too must fall,
For I shall grow weary
Of stretching to the sky, and
Digging into the Depths of the Earth.

To the very earth that nurtured me
I bequeath my wealth
e’er morn someday I shall go hollow
When my love has fulfilled me whole.

So I say to thee
When she ask of me
Why I love her so
‘I am the tree
And she thee
Earth and Sun
That let me grow.’

My drought had been long
My thrist severe inside
The desert cold of my loneliness.

Such a pining I felt
And could not describe but
My need was easily understood.

I had a craving for contact
Of warm skin, conditioned hair,
Under the saftey of a comforter.

The Night's cold that chills
May speak of my need, but the
Wounds of my soul held the truth.

I could feel myself withering
In the cold desert of my feelings-
Such a death I wish on no one.

My rewaking arose with the cold
Sting of a blade, feeling warm
against my icy veins.

The blade made a flow of
words into my mind and
bid me to write them here.

Of such reminders I have few,
But I remember this feeling,
Which I asked to wait outside the door.

Upon Her entry I remembered why
I had avoided Her for so long,
Her cold gaze penetrating my heart.

It was not in my strength to
Fain a second defense against
The onslaught of her will.

She held me in her frigid embrace
And I thanked her for it,
For within it was a hint of what I longed.

I knew the blade was Hers,
And bid her again my gratitude,
For I knew this death would let me live.

It is almost morbidly humorous
That Loneliness can take care of
Those enslaved to her so well.

Clasping the wound from the blade
I walked out the Door, wishing to
Turn back and show my rejoice of my freedom.

There was little time however,
And I wished to say goodbye to a
Chosen few, and the journey was harsh.

The wind outside howled and snow
Bit at my face, much like those
I felt necessary to bid my adieu.

While I can scarcely recall
My meetings with both, I know
The burden was lessened by the visit.

The touch of a warm hand lingered
On my cheek, and the taste of a kiss
On my tongue were the only memories I left with.

At the Gateway to the
Relm of the Warm I looked back
quietly on the Land of the Lonely.

I know many despise that Queendom,
But I cultivated a fondness for it
Few can grow, and fewer can explain.

At 2AM I took a longing breath
Of the coldness that surrounded me
And with it I walked out the archway.

No matter how much the
Sun loves the Moon,
No matter how honestly,
   gently and genuine,
Half of the Moon shall always be
Hidden from the face of the Sun.

Some people say love is an open door
So when you left I closed the door
But I still hear the love behind the door
Even though the door is no longer there.

I’m afraid of this rationalization age
In which we understand so much about what the heart is
That we forget what the heart symbolizes-
For at that point man becomes more machine than man.

Where does the butterfly go
When all the flowers are gone?

From whence does he pull a draught
Of nectar to soothe his body and mind?

His wings falter at the cutting breeze
For ‘tis already the cusp of winter.

He no longer has the healing tonic
Of her blossom as night falls down

And so he succumbs to his fate
Laying down in the freezing dew

Dreaming of the days of spring-
Of the orchid bud he once knew.