We are thrown to the Earth -- what for?
Without even the least mark to bear,
Waves that toss and **** and side the shore.
In the breaking ocean -- what glory is there?

Still I cannot think by chance it's kept,
For we share time and its passing, fleet,
For our eyes, find the other's step,
Our voices, their echoes meet.

Rathering shed our memory, more our name,
Of the climbing dawn, our love beneath it,
Than serve cruel reason and falsely claim,
We hadn't been born to see it.

Thousand formless threads
lull tides in one who keeps such
webs of restless peaks.

If, but a moment,
she's held by the air
steeping in the still light,
and decides it belongs not
to the bells or the Hands
of the wall or those to come --
but in hers.

If, but a moment,
she sees what's for
a thousand night's been sung,
And yet, it rests not
in the forms or firmament
pitched upon the dark of covered Eyes --
but in hers.

If, but a moment,
by her grace,
she may make herself
or more what she wills.

Then, but a moment,
may I be.

Some faint lights' flicker
warms, once cold, the April earth
and the soul it's for.