It would not be fair to you to say
that you are as bright as the brightest star,
because as you are you could be the whole
planetary systems, moons and suns abound,

the milky way. Every star that made
its way into the onyx landscape of a historical
night would be a blight next to you. How do I compare
you to the you of ancient history? It would not seem
feasible to make the contrast of one so young

like the spring when juleps rain and pansies
pounce, and daffodils wave their tails in
fluffy yellow, swirling flounce. Today you are
all four seasons. I can not give a reason as

to why. And this might seem strange
to you, because I’m so prolific with
words. But none can do the job of this. How does
one explain pure bliss?