We have touched the precarious petals of the flowers called friendship on many sides
and they have never ceased to surprise. Everywhere there is a purpose, everywhere
a suspicion as to the purpose, nectar guides and scent and sweet relishes,
but seldom the power to hold the whole fluorescence to the same receptacle for long.
Our beloved resting places are necessary transitions – pollen, dew, fruit and seed.
That is why perhaps all of them wither, sooner or later; that is why love is a whisper
so surely warmed, so daintily drowned that most good swimmers are left at a loss.
All good swimmers lend themselves so well to the song of the sea and sew each stroke
to the loosely woven rag of the withering clouds so less themselves, so largely formed
that terrible questions arise – unexpected storms outwardly swarmed with silence.
Sun’s fiery eye is clear and blinding bright – value is not self aware and beatitude unclear,
but there is a small wooden window we saw today that opens into a light blue sky,
out of which the word ‘life’ escapes – as soon as we speak it – to become a wooded mountain.
The wind blows our moments across the face of summer slopes studded with small homes –
our flowers grow effortless wings and claim the gnomic gift of soaring in the thermals.