Tow the ache
  simmering magnetic
    slivers of sunset awe
  
         streaking unnamed things
           holding it inside
              unleashing rivers of
       clean starlight

giving itself
      to the earth.

    Loneliness smells like curling
        smoke drifting on a crisp night
           when a thousand howls
               plead to the Harvest Moon

                    for something
                       buried inside
                          sprouting to get out.

Call it the invisible field of yourself
  where nobody can see what
     grows there, except the One
        who flies through it,    

        
   monitoring it all
       with unconditional love          listening to the ache
  of diversity yearn for itself

on another level
where two becomes One.