My self blooms
along with the world...

I know that my certainties are
as capricious as the sky...

Mornings allow me to forget.
The bright glare of day sweeps out...

The
sinuous...

Hope on the fingertips of branches!
Springing up in paisley-patterned green and gold...

Timelessly I stare
searching my own eyes...

The world presents itself, framed and unreal
stained like a canvas in sandstone and steel...

This descent
into love, it was as...

A valley empty, cold and dead
the winter keeps its frigid bed...

When mincing
at the margin...

Certainly. How could I not recall
how...

The quiet sigh
that rushes from my parted lips...