i confess it takes
one word from you
to touch me still
while the world grows silence
until there is only you
and your word

blood surges like lava once more
to my dormant volcanic heart

still, i am wise and realize
your word from the recipe for surprise:
the season of silence and absence
ripened time and choice words
in the garden of our distance
into this fruit, plucked harvest

i am not a magus, only an alchemist
as i decipher the chemicals and elements
trace parts and exact measures
as i draw symbols and mental lines
for the ritual to transform your surprise
to reveal the face and name that it hides

because your words are not you
nor am i the words i reply
laced with a chameleon’s skin
for the end that has happened,
for the new season that reins
this naked earth and sky