Every road rises with the sun,
She does not speak of her decline.

My march is up one mountain
My fingers trace her spine

And hers trace mine--
Sifting creation with me
This way and that
Preoccupied, or
In paradise.

De-
Naturing?
If only with air,
We're making ties.

And now, I really should go--

She's making eyes.

...

Evergreen, deciduous trees
Winding trails and crystal streams
All woven into her halo,

She's making eyes.