Are you a brush for my golden hair,
or a stunningly sharp dagger - so rare?;
Small ends of my skin stand up
in applause for your arrival,
but the question of survival still remains:
A garden of day? Or a garden of night?
I am no owl, but I can see in the dark.
Normally a dog runs at a strike,
But I may look back, I might,
As I watch the sun fade...then grow again:
It shrinks as the light fills me, so warm!
As we share; can we love,
with an endless melody, rather than
an excerpt of being?
Whether yin or yang, I still see the air between...
Is it you too, or only me?
Be my daggerbrush,
because my hair still needs to be cut
after some time --
So, keep me in line,
and I'll look after you, truly.