what are you(or what you always once were)other than
the twirl in the string and the root under oak. the
math in the pattern and the mirror beyond the reflection.

i feel i know no other(beyond my sentiments
of you, dearest)and the blanket of your soft touch. your
warm breath melting the ice caps of my sorrows.

you are the legs shared by men and table; the
frame yet the paint; the brick and the roof(
protecting me from myself);and the cloud of the rains.

you are the flash before death, you(and only
you)are birth, you are the reflection, you are the pen
but most importantly you are you(and no one other).