bursts from behind clouds,
a slow tide.
The wind whips around us;
your smile is now framed
with my sigh,
carried out to you
that we might share life.
The water-flow now falling by
in cataract and waterfall
will whirl beneath the April sky
until the lines of time unfold
into a tessaract unflawed
and river pours into its source,
an origamic game of awe
by which the end begins its course.
And by old nature's mystic laws
the mists of time will burn away,
returning cycle to its cause
from which it journeys day by day
and whither it by nature tends
across the rounding universe
in roundel verse that stream-like wends
with action's hunger, nature's thirst,
unthwarted by old jealous time.
And time itself, an instrument,
is turned around upon a sphere;
its bold, straight line and lineament
will circle round but will not veer,
and by old nature's patterns laid
will new circumference draw in course
to symbolize in pattern made
the cycle's cycle's unmade source.
I was born a quiet soul
as cats are born with quiet eyes;
the light had not yet broken in
the cell within which thought is hid;
it merely played around the edge
upon the surface of the skin
with reddish gold and purple form
that twisted, melded, like the clouds.
But from each birth the patterns move.
They shape a course and show a way.
Some pain lifts up the hiding lid
and eye then sees the light of day;
a pain that startled opened sight
and I took in the flood of day.
I hear your words;
they whistle by my ear.
I wonder how they come
so close, so near,
fall short of the heart;
and if you cannot hit it,
how can I start
to love you yet again?