Where, perfection, do you dwell
If not in the touch of one who loves me well
In the curiosity contained within the eyes
Of the soul searching, undisguised
For the compass contained within my center
For permission granted for which to enter
We, this imperfect photograph
In which nobody
Wants to be
Warped by wisdom
Invested in love
Honoring any of Earth
Touched at their edges by angels
Apologetic or ever redeemed
As evidenced by this Alone
I’ll arrive on rain
That I’ll sooner quench your pain
As a love letter
I snowball you
You’d thought, just a tiny, white match….
A good, quick fight ‘fore you made your way home
As the avalanche of me comes along￼￼
My wayfaring crystalline purifies you
Where now is your old arsenal
Your well-groomed trail?
Replaced by my black-diamond touch
So much talk and so many voices
Weighing down and weighing in
But still unanswered to my mind
How many light years and lifetimes
Given how alike and unlike our hearts
Are you from touching me
May someone cause you
The calmest touch
May someone draw you
The deeper still
May someone hear you
The never before
Which is better of a tree? Which is better use of me?
To speak of its presence? Saying, “How strong its solemness, standing tall, withstanding all?” Asking you to close your eyes and opine on how it could be that such a tree only sometimes sways and creaks, whilst all creatures around it move about, busily in elsewhere mode?
Or shall I show this photograph…evidencing all my skill? See here my theft of light, my manipulation of mirrors? All the while holding my breath, knowing all I’d offer you was a lie to your eye, an insult to its blessed, innate sense of depth, of dimension?
Walk we instead, up to this friend and touch, even taste its barked bend? It won’t mind! Trace your finger to its roots-there’s solemnity! Follow, follow upward eyes, leaves dancing in the wind. Shading, singing as a friend?
Why did you act like water and feel like hands
And I, born thirsty with never a progenitor to touch me
Why did I, the reluctant saint, concede nonetheless to True North’s tug
And you, the only lesser god ever worth worshipping