You, whose quiet sadness was a caged snowfall,
whose tears were a journey alone, whose chained
passion and unfinished dreams were like
bound clouds above the world;

you are the reason, the poetic reason,
the seasons follow their footsteps,
again and again:

only you can tell us how the night
unbuttons itself, how the wind slides
invisible silk across our skin, how dawn
frees the light from its dark dungeon, or
how a kiss is a pleasure seized with wanting.

Inside your eternal mind, in the creative
hollows of your imagination, life is a landscape
of time’s passing, brought to us in poetic verse
by way of clear, spiritual truth;

and the pulp that you write on
bows to your divine existence.

Oh, beautiful, beautiful you, evening is
now here, and only you can express the
mystical bliss of walking alone
beneath the stars, or

the sensual touch of a night rain’s lips
upon your skin, or how a sip of wine
becomes the lovemaking between you
and the soul a grape.

Knowing nothing but love for everything,
you are “the politeness of blue sky”, the
erotic scent of a wet red rose, the slow
heat of an August noon, a love dream,
a love song, the peaceful calm of
a single white cloud,

and you present yourself divinely.

Now my Perfect Swan spread your wings,
again, and shake them loudly, and let a feather fall
upon its reflection in the water, only to know
the infinite possibilities of its freedom.


(for Tammy)