Love's letters clattered in currents Winds curled to stillness, in a talus of potpourri, Season totem, a cluster of hope, waiting For one match pulled and struck, To scare the ghosts from the pyre. In a choke of smoke from sweet attar, Loves heat fans the embers within the hearts own fire.
So many words wrenched from mouth and wrought from hand Contortions, twisted spoken grip, we strip the evergreen needles from the bough and let them fall from the fist, Sprinkling fir To the earth as grist.
Had not a sentence stretched from pulsing ink well by plume to parchment, or from warm breath of lipβs beseech What then of our night would say, And of our day to listen.
If we do not dare with deeds to fly Then the falling never ends, And poem, eternal, ne'er to begin Loves expression, not its desire, Is the cachet to which both life and death aspire.