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-