The finch, awaiting the morning sunrise
lifts its beak in proud anticipation.
Darkness. The sun has forgotten to rise.
The finch waits for it in desperation.

To sing, to wake the world in glory’s song!
Why night, but for the finch to greet the day?
But dawn forgot to come; something is wrong.
The finch is lost, hopefulness fades away.

The sun causes the song of spirit freed,
his morning song in praise of all beloved!
The finch had grown accustomed to this need.
He’d never had to miss being so loved.

The finch misses the only thing he knew,
yet missing dawn less than I’m missing you.

Your love is like the horizon,
perceived no matter where I stand,
unclear which world that it lies in,
in and beyond my outstretched hand.

Your love is like that distant line
where heaven meets the earthly plane,
the beginning of my sunshine
that bounds a limitless domain.

Your love is like the horizon,
connected wherever I go,
comfort I idealize in,
the only constant that I know.

Your love is like that distant line
that never will recede from view.
Surrounding me and only mine,
I’m there in the center of you.

Before the finch sings or the rooster crows,
before eyelids raise or the sunrise glows,
before the sky transforms from midnight blue,
I’ve already begun my thoughts of you.

Before the alarm’s ring has hit my ears,
before the fog of sleep in my head clears,
before the grass is soaked with morning dew,
the day has started with my thoughts of you.

Before I extricate myself from dreams,
before the birds bathe in the dawn’s sunbeams,
before the coffee calls for me to brew,
my heart and soul begin to call for you.

Before I can arise from where I lay,
before everything that starts my day,
before anything else I have to do,
my day’s begun with loving thoughts of you.

Spinning, turning from night to day,
the world goes around and around.
“You’re wrong! The Earth is flat!” some say.
They’re wrong. You make the world go round.

Each day the sun will rise and set,
with songbirds as the morning sound,
all might seem calm and still, and yet,
your love’s making the world go round.

There’d be no stars and no night sky,
no constellations to be found,
if we couldn’t bid the Sun goodbye,
and you didn’t make the world go round.

The world greets me each day anew.
Time passes though I hold my ground.
Time itself seems derived from you,
because you make my world go round.

Did you know when you woke today
that I would fall in love with you?
That your eyes would be seductive
sirens attracting me to you?

When you delicately opened
your lips at dawn to breathe, did you
know that first breath would draw me in
to your heart and deep love for you?

How many times were you to smile,
not knowing how much I’d love you?
Were you truly that unaware
that pure beauty is to see you?

How many years have passed till now,
my eyes waiting to behold you?
Did you know this moment would come,
searching for beauty, I’d find you?

There’s a knocking that I hear each morning,
a knock both a visitor and warning,
mistakes that invite themselves to my door,
mistakes that are not welcome anymore.

It’s not fear that makes me keep them outside,
nor the fatigue of further wounded pride.
I’ve learned enough what lies beyond my door.
It’s those mistakes I don’t need anymore.

Although I still don’t live life blamelessly,
I prefer to make mistakes namelessly.
Don’t package them and send them to my door
with my name on the label anymore.

It’s not that I should err and let it slide,
but I’ll never be perfect, though I’ve tried.
I know the sin that coucheth at my door.
I don’t need to bear their mark anymore.

She’s in my field of view.
So what am I to do?
I’ve nothing much to say,
but cannot look away.

This beauty caught my eye.
It’s pointless now to try—
though staring is a sin,
I’ll sin and take her in.

This beauty sits so near,
that my world stopped right here.
Now life’s very essence
is simply her presence.

Perhaps I’ll see her smile
if I sit here a while.
But if she won’t it seems
I’ll see her in my dreams.

You are my goblet of fine wine,
deep and full, aged to perfection,
plump red lips as grapes off the vine,
tastes mixed in perfect complexion.

Like wine that one drinks long and slow
to sense every subtle tone,
each sip brings something new to know,
our encounter is all my own.

I’m drunk on your complexity,
calmed by your scent before I drink,
yet moved by your intensity
until I know not what to think.

My symbol of celebration,
the proof of the Vintner’s daring,
cause and effect of elation,
your love is my perfect pairing.

At night I close my eyes to see beauty,
and then in the morning I open them.
This is the essence of being awake—
to open your eyes to live your dreams, or
live without them because you don’t need them.

All the world’s beauty to appreciate
includes the beauty worth dreaming about,
and beauty about which I dared not dream.
There is beauty in darkness and in light—
who am I not to fall in love with it?

I’ve dreamt of beauty I could not describe,
but nor can I describe beauty I’ve seen.
To encounter beauty is irony—
it stops my heart and makes me feel alive,
touched and moved by ethereality.

Countless voices singing their little hymns
converge in a glorious harmony,
sing song lyrics that celebrate my whims
perform a symphony inside of me.

My heart conducts a most enchanted choir,
of booming bass sung to uplifting heights
and tenors sweeter than King David’s lyre,
a singer for each of my heart’s delights.

The joy within erupts in songs of praise
to a life hitting every perfect note,
and hearing what my inner chorus says
in melodies from places most remote.

All the conflicting voices had been wrong
until they all declared my love in song.