“Observe the wonders as they occur around you. Don’t claim them. Feel the artistry moving through and be silent. Don’t grieve. Anything you lose comes ‘round in another form.” – Rumi

Nothing but a flock of pre-dawn breeze,
And florid sky, and lake

Taut with water, like a sail:
A painting in motion, unfinished.

The moist-blue flower of your eyes
Opens to the sun of my voice.

I daub in your pallet of thought.
Little auroras fall from the trees.

The drowsy earth is our entwined hands,
Longing clouds and currents.

Your kiss sets free
My swollen veins.

A patch of light grows on itself and spreads
Like a bucket of paint, leaking color in all directions.

I brush your hair;
It drips, haphazard, on the soil’s canvas

And I shape the dew, the sweat
That pools on your warming skin

Until we are complete, and still—a ruddy composition

That can no poetic heart for long satisfy.

Originally written November 19, 2001
Updated and edited April 15 and August 4, 2018